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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 |
| [untitled fragment of a song] If when in France, I sing and dance and Merry, she'll dance with me, we'll sweep the floor, go out the door, and merry we both shall be. In London, Toronto, in Lisbon and Oslo, we'll jiggle and wiggle and bounce. In Bergen or Bali, in Belfast or Bolly- wood pirouette, giggle and flounce. ... ... © Kåre Enga (28.mai.2017) [174.108] Note: midnight is a cruel hour to have to get up and take down notes before forgetting them! Will need refinement and maybe another verse or two. But these two stanzas establish the rhythm. (Lines 1 and 3: 4 meters, with 8 iambic beats; lines 5 and 7 with 4 meters but 12 beats. A musician would correct me, I'm sure.) |
| To a social-psychopath I changed my number, changed my address, scrambled my name and switched my sex. I'm under witness protection until you rot. So sad... for once we were friends, but now we're not. © Kåre Enga (29.mai.2017) [174.111] |
| Landscape of locust and larch In a landscape of locust and larch, we bake in hot shade, bask in hotter sun, raise bare branches to lumbering snow clouds, once winter comes, and never trust Spring until warmth makes us bud. Our strengths: learned reticence, profound patience, our skeptic mistrust. Yet planted here: we locusts bloom in arms-open valleys, we larch cling to steep jagged slopes, we humans... neither... or both, we mountain lovers, we valley dwellers full of hope. © Kåre Enga (28.mayo.2017) [174.110] |
| 16 small funerals There was that aroma enticing us, our stomachs empty, eyes filled with the sight of cheese till the snap, blood oozing from crushed flesh. We fled, shivered in our dens, hid until hungry we ventured forth again, when black whiskers made us scream, Mercy! No mercy for us. We were a crew. We were young. We entered this world eyes wide open. Now we disappear, eyes shut, one by one. © Kåre Enga (27.mai.2017) [174.103] Inspired by Parris Ja Young. |
| To Narcissus When we look in a mirror, who do we see? You see a god. I see me. © Kåre Enga (27.mayo.2017) [174.105] |
| Sidewinder Parting hot quartz crystals, your forward progress at a slant, you cross hostile country without a blink or backward glance. You travel through these burning sands, eyes slit that never gaze at skies. For nightmares fill this Dreamtime land, where ere you pass. O Slim Rope that winds through fallen stars, your sidewind trek leaves but a trace, your passage just a trance. © Kåre Enga (23.mai.2017) [174.94] |
| Your little spears —stabbed the slabs of beef, tore at meat, as if— they did not belong in a human mouth, as if—no one else had teeth. Descendant of sharks, you told us, not monkeys like you apes, you scold us. We just nod and protect our napes, never turning our back to you. Each white flash— each bloody slash— admonished us. Reminded us how much we value our life. As if— your little spears could end it. As if—we were grade A meat— and you were a butcher. © Kåre Enga (25.mai.2017) [174.100] |
| Ha —ha—ha— I do not smile, the gloom of my mood clouds my eyes, my lashes flash and the clap of internal thunder seeks to escape my lips. Pray that they stay sewn shut—by courtesy— or respect. Laugh if you must, but do not force me to smile. For grimaces are small coins in the Land of Ha— and you dare not afford my ire. © Kåre Enga (27.mayo.2017) [174.102] |
| Listening to you read for Jenny Montgomery Distill words until only essence remains. Simmer until all extraneous ideas burn off. Decant the detritus. How pure what remains! How quiet syllables murmur when atoned alone. Daydreams fill pauses in between words, each dram pondered before the next sip. You, dear writer, are the bee and this the nectar you have gathered, their ambrosia you have stored, an assay of the purest honey that you share. © Kåre Enga (25.mayo.2017) [174.101] |
| I will survive... will survive... will survive... Oh, how the rain mocks my tears. © Kåre Enga [174.98] (24.mayo.2017) Based on: Mirar la lluvia denuncia a los imitadores del sueños" posted by Christopher Solano on facebook. Could be considered an American Sentence. |
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