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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 |
 Spoon River breakout We were happy. After the hurly burly lives of small town Illinois, we wanted to rest. Spoon River wasn't quite like Masters said. Sure, we gossiped. What else could do. And yes, some refused to give up the ghost (pardon the pun) and get along. But mostly, we shared our memories through the roots that bound us all. A better system of communication than even Old Bell's. So what happened? The greedy owners of the cemetery wanted to bury abandoned bodies on top of us. It's not like we boxes of bones and rotted flesh are prudes, but these new brutes had new ideas and news that disturbed our sleep. They spoke of atrocities: missing commas, mispelled words and outright lies passing as truth. We Dead KNOW the truth. It's one thing to be dead, another to be reduced to bad grammar. We had to do something, they said. A century of peace had come to an end. We armed ourselves with proper rhyme, rhythm and reason and old-fashioned forms. We whispered complete sentences into the ears of the willing. We encouraged other to speak with common sense and eloquence. Even Young Ellie, who never did play with a complete set of marbles, made progress. We made plans. It would be cliché to say we waited for a full moon (we didn't) or that a wizard with a wand guided us (although... there were a couple of bitchy witches among us). No magic was used. We just waited until a garbage truck rammed into the iron fence that had bound us and released us. The hole was a tight fit for Doctor Henderson but most of him got through. All was going well. We haunted the hallowed halls offering MFA degrees. We figured that A stood for Art, but some of us got our mouths washed out for making suggestions about the true meaning of MF. We laughed over their trials and tribulations. The Dead have our own sense of humor... no matter what James Joyce wrote. And we yawned over their long weeping tears; we'd already done it all ourselves. For a while no one noticed us. We passed as zombie copy editors. Crossing eyes and drinking tea whenever someone couldn't figure out there, their and they're. But Hollywood caught on and decided to cash in. We suspect that's why they resurrected Jane Austen. Sense and Sensibility was the new motto. Prim and Proper was called upon to save the day. It didn't. We started to surf the internet (so easy for disembodied energy by-the-way). We began to be known as grammar-police as they mocked us with with run-on-sentences insane abbreviations and FYI trying to make us LOL at insipid jokes that never had a meaning and went on and on and on... and once their attention span was reduced to 10 seconds they began to tweet. Bird song is pleasant. It wasn't that type of twittering. Ever the Phobic Leader, even the president got sucked in. WWLD. What-Would-Lincoln-Do, we cried! We rattled our clavicles and tibias and then cried some more. We all resolved to teach him diction, a six-grade vocabulary, a bit of humility and a teaspoonful of kindness (bitter for him to swallow... we know) when he joins us under the sod. Oh. Don't start cheering yet. It's a dirty job (and for sure we and the worms will do it) but he'll add a century of Purgatory and we just want to rest in peace. Our Peace, the quiet bickering of Spoon River voices, compiled in an anthology some of you, once forced, have actually read. But please take pity and hear our plea. Bury him somewhere else! © Kåre Enga (29.junio.2017) [174.164] /30:29.1/ NOTE: mispelled is misspelled ... on purpose! |
 Aquamarine You burn old photos of your grandmother, your aunt, your mother, you. Black and white no longer defines you (no more than the past). You wish to light the night in flashing neon the color of the sea: AQUAMARINE AQUAMARINE AQUAMARINE AQUAMARINE AQUAMARINE © Kåre Enga (28.junio.2017) [174.162] /30:28.1&2/  |
 stray thoughts on SLEEP We sleep. Between sea and seashore, we sleep. Festooned with our blankets, cocooned in our caves, eyelids droop to dream. We sleep standing on all four legs, spread out or curled into a ball. Yet all sleep, one way or another. As books pile up and eyelids lower, dreams of fish swim by us. All becomes plausible as we sleep. The sea lulls us to sleep; the silence of its depths enters and stills us. And we sleep. © Kåre Enga (27.juni.2017) [174.160] /30:27.1&2/  |
 Between my pages Open me as you would your heart. Spill inner angst and ennui. Spell your thoughts and let me weave your tapestry. Or wipe me clean to start anew. I am but a palimpsest; only I shall know. By light or darkness let your pen flow free. Scribe in cursive what dare not be described. Don't fear to laugh or pine. I'll hold these tears until eternity's cold wind blows as they crumble with the dust of time. © Kåre Enga (27.june.2017) [174.157] /30:26.1/ |
 Prince of the flying orcas He summons them with a horn. They come; his minions bursting forth from a wave of water and then take flight leaving only froth. The young god watches the denizens of the sea fly over him in an orchestration of orcas, seals and sharks, measuring the beat of fins as wave upon wave fill liquid skies. They are his subjects. This is his home. Young prince, maker of myths. © Kåre Enga (26.junio.2017) [174.155] /30:25.1/ |
| Daisies Lay down your bones in a pure-white field. Gaze at what has fallen from the stars. Gently count each pristine petal —he loves me, he loves me, he loves me— until relaxed you fall asleep. Dream of linen flapping in a breeze, stiff sails guiding you to ice-cold lands, warm snowflakes caressing dampened cheeks. Awake in a field of daisies. Drink-in the milk of your childhood. Be amazed by a field of white— petals caressing each cheek. © Kåre Enga (24.junio.2017) [174.154] /30:24.1/  |
| Worlds of water How a unique world is reflected in each drop of water. How many drops, each plop sending out ripples. Even now—after decades— their portents reaching out, offering a new home. I would embrace each one of you... if I could hug water. But I'm lava. And my fire would turn you all to steam. © Kåre Enga (24.junio.2017) [174.153] /30:23.2/  |
| Caminante no hay camino... The hand that holds the brush that paints the picture of yourself is you, always you. And there is no path, traveler. You make your own as you walk it. For this path has never existed until you live it. Be an artist then. Choose to live your life with a passion that lights candles to show others the way. For only you can do this. Only you have this power to be you. ...se hace el camino al andar.  © Káre Enga (23.junio.2017) [174.152] Inspired by the songs of Joan Manuel Serrat and the poetry of Antonio Machado. |
 Curiosity They say you don't have to teach a child curiosity... you just have to crush it. But, I wouldn't know. My kind doesn't ask questions. We merely blink yes or no. But these old books... contain worlds where I'll never go. I cherish them all, hide them where others don't look. "Curiosity is not allowed", they'd tell me. I'd rather they didn't know. Here among the dusty pages of other species I can enter their alien worlds, try to imagine me then and there. If they still exist I could ask them questions my kind never ponders. I'd sit with their curious children. They'd understand. They'd know. © Kåre Enga (22.june.2017) [174.151] /30:21.1/ |
 Scry Can your outer eye see inside me, does the talisman you wear worn you of who I'll someday be? O mage in training, bewitch me with your inner eye, tell me what you see there. © Kåre Enga (20.june.2017) [174.150] /30:20.1/ |
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