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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
   L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣  L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L  V COMMENTS!On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara  passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links:  These pictures rotate.   Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
| Life through other's eyes His life revolved around books, walls of insulation from the world, telescopes to peer at it from afar. A window let in light to read, in winter cardinals came to the feeder, in summer it opened to let in a breeze. Boyhood tales of knights and dragons morphed into mysteries solved by youth his age, but so unlike him they seemed quite alive. Then came comic books, magazines and mangas, the serious tômes of Albert Camus, the heavier ones of Dostroyevsky. He had kept them all, shelves groaning, his bed hidden behind a closet door, falling asleep each night with favorite poems. He would spend a century of reading, if he could, each day struggling with eternal truth and lies, never leaving, seeing life through other's eyes. © Kåre Enga (29.avril.2017) [174.61] Written while listening to Sayantani Dasgupta read an essay at Shakespeare & Co. 80.857 |
| Trash and trash talk Behind the door: trash talk and trash, cigarette smoke wafting through thick air, ash-choke of Idaho, weak grey sun. It's August in the alley and Paul Simon sings ...die she must. And we wish she would so we could bury her and clear the air. In September ...we'd remember,... maybe, but October's frosty brews would help us forget. But today, today she's singing out of tune: Give the blues, give me a Pabst. I'll put blue ribbons in your hair and dance. Behind the bar: trash talk and trash, ribbons of smoke, weaving a trance. © Kåre Enga (28.avril.2017) [174.58] Written at Fact and Fiction, inspired by Mark Gibbons, thinking of the back alleys behind Missoula's bars. |
| In Oz... In Aus... Where we were going we had no clue, we chose new paths; other ways were taxing. We measured each step expecting a blast. A party some would not survive. But those who did had bigger pieces of pie... of nothingness; it had all gone to Hell. First it was their fault. Then it was ours. We were left behind, blaming each other. When we set out we had no clue, we followed one who never ceased to fool us; now we were few and there was no promised peace as he hid behind the curtain. © Kåre Enga (28.avril.2017) [174.63] Aus = Australia, pronounced the same as Oz. 80.853 |
| Love lies frozen Lips like lichen, rough and grey, Heart, a stone-hard wall, un-giving, Flesh like bleu cheese, soft and rotting. Like puckering plums, best kept cool and dry. Guard your thoughts, this love lies frozen. There's no sell-by date for rat poison. © Kåre Enga [174.62] (29.avril.2017) Title is provisional. |
| Penultimate In this breath, the one before the last, before rebirth robs me of my grasp on life, I repeat three little words, as Death's darkness leads me through a tunnel of light, echoes you will hear until we reunite. I ask you to accept this heart-felt gift, to brighten what remains of your life, to guide your way back to me. © Kåre Enga (27.avril.2017) [174.56] Dew Drop prompt: penultimate |
| But only God can make a tree Before the blight killed them all, the mighty elm with arms outstretched vaulted cathedrals above her avenues Spring-covered with masses of winged seeds and hanging baskets of orange orioles in the cooling shade of Summer, the golden shade of autumn's light, last color fading from our sight, November's lingering whispers in it's hair strong branches almost bare. No fairer tree grew in all our realm, soaring above us with arms outstretched than the cathedrals of the mighty elm. © Kåre Enga (28.april.2017) [174.60] 80.838 |
| If I am to live "If it was to be life, it would be passion", Leanne O'Sullivan If I am to live, it must be with passion. These shadows must find other places to hide and the frightened child must leave the womb of denial as stone numbness of ache and pain washes away by flows of lava or water. What dark tomb awaits, must wait a while longer. Till passion plays out. Till shadows return, humbled. Till this lonely child rejoices in the dance of Life. If I am to live, let me embrace the light; at death, let me be joyful to embrace the coming night. © Kåre Enga (27.avril.2017) [174.57] Note: Quote from "I live", a poem of Leanne O'Sullivan of Ireland. |
| April's snow At the end of April... powder-sugared mountains; in the valley we crave sun not the sting of snow. Daffodils fade as tulips bloom and lilacs wait. Not warm, but they're cozy under blankets of snow. This too shall pass long before Summer's heat and fires, as rivers rise from the rains and the melt of snow. And the cycles continue from birth to rebirth, a promise of growth, a harvest before new snow. For what is past is past if not yet forgotten. So we look to our future with each fall of snow. As our hair turns grey than white then slowly falls out, We are jealous of mountains covered with new snow. Yet, Spring has come to those who have entered Autumn, not ready to succumb to promises of snow. Oh, Kåre... know this... unless a new body's found, be prepared to rest in your coffin cloaked with snow. © Kåre Enga (27.avril.2017) [174.54] Needs fixing, but I don't have time at the moment! It snowed, a few flakes, today. |
| After reading the news... assailed by festering wounds, a cluster of bombs, I walk down stone paths, hands raised against the storm, as if to banish clouds. And then I look down: three shooting stars, two yellow bells, one violet, oblivious. © Kåre Enga (26.avril.2017) [174.53] |
| Thrown out of the office So little to place in a box: a cup, a photograph. His co-workers kept their smiles stopped up. Their bile they shared. So he left. Left everyone; left everything, even the box. Hell had been endured; he was so glad to be out of there. Beyond cubicles the world loomed beautiful. So much clutter had blocked his view. He took nothing with him, only kept one friend, sent him postcards from his travels. He knew he needed to roam, but his heart needed a home to come back to. © Kåre Enga (26.avril.2017) [174.50] |
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