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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 |
| Carry you home Your stardust weighs nothing: ground bone and leather dry as the moon you fled to, the outpost you died in... frightened I would follow, aware I would find you. I've always sought you out, Zmitri, whether you drowned in the marshes of Zmuda or when on Zmaa'a, you were blasted into mere energy. Signs of your passage have always guided me. I've known your trace of atoms from the beginning of Eternity. I carry you home now, ready to be reborn as a star. © Kåre Enga [174.182.zm] Lexi#6 (17.july.2017) |
| Fire and Flame 1. Fill the buckets! Douse the flames! The mountain blazes and sparks when the lush green of Spring ripens and dries. It's ready to burn. 2. Lower the scoop into the river. Raise it full of fish and water. Carry it to the burning mountain. Drop it! Like loaves of manna, quench the thirst of the slopes. 3. Blackened pines and scorched meadows mock the silly folk who mourn. This cycle of life and death renews dead soils, will feed deep roots. Come next Spring all will sprout anew a dapper shade of emerald. © Kåre Enga [174.181] Lexi#3 (17.julio.2017] |
| Lick me at the Celtic Fest I meet a puppy, some two-year-old pooch that lives to lick the hands and faces of friends— and all strangers too. Tan floppy ears perk as I pet her and a pink muzzle nuzzles for more. Where there's no fear of contact— we-all connect: me, this puppy, the Celtic universe. But I must inquire, my dearest love —if I were a boxer— could I you lick you too. © Kåre Enga [174.197] (29.july.2017) |
| Gold and false gold Kjent eller ukjent men... always... alltid... ready to explode. We fathom our hands, pan golden sands, wash them from mother-lode. We seek to understand the known and unknown... each time we question the distance between gold and false gold. But even iron pyrite has its beauty. That for us must unfold and although gold costs nothing to admire, pyrite wastes little to acquire. In the glitter of quartz strands, by the pearl essence of the moon, even truth bows to beauty and truth or untruth become one and the unknown ravels and to weaves the cloth of what is known. © Kåre Enga [174.196] (29.juli.2017) |
| i didn't see your car ...your car wasn't parked outside tonight and no one no one answered your door the breeze that cools my bed tonight freezes the smile i once wore as years of friendship that once we shared fade with two words: no more and the little death of sleep that comes shudders with the nightmares of yore when i huddled alone in the land of despair before before © Kåre Enga (28.julio.2017) [174.193] 81.399 |
| I responded to Connie Biddle Morrison: "I'll need to save this link elsewhere. My "Blood of the Garlic" is about characters more than plot so I'd sum it up as "the misadventures of a marginalized community of misfits". The theme? SURVIVAL seems to fit. I find the article useful and will need to re-read it. As for "Os vampiros não vivem em Évora" ... "a young man traces his roots... excited and afraid of what he'll find". It's about? ACCEPTANCE of SELF perhaps? Although both have "vampires" as main characters that's not really the theme nor the story line. My characters are so-much more than "blood-suckers"; they aren't leeches. ♥ Thanks." https://blog.reedsy.com/what-is-the-theme-of-a-book/ |
| In my sleep Your gentle breezes cooled my fever. Your ice-cold fingers probed my pain. I dreamed for centuries while you massaged my ennui—and banked my embers. Let me rest beyond complaint. I've gained the wisdom winds and waters bring. I'll float upon your iceberg seeking sun, until you melt. Until you're done. And then I'll blaze anew, my lava swinging around a distant sun. You'll forever melt my dreams, Zmitri. Until once again we meld as one. © Kåre Enga (23.jui.2017.zm) Lexi#2 [174.189] |
| Unwanted reminder A bulldog carries a dildo, pink, long, completely hung, not neutered. He brings it from the neighbor's yard, carries it like a new-found toy, his precious. He will chew on the boner or bury it like a bone perhaps to be found some day by a prospector looking for treasur, or an anthropologist searching for a cultural artifact. In fact, it's both. Will they laugh? Do you dare visit your neighbor to return the 'gift'? Really... do you dare? © Kåre Enga (23.juio.2017) Lexi#10 [174.188] |
| ... and someone asks whose ghost is leaning against the dying pine, how Billy Biden was so young, only 65... And you remember a kid riding a bike through the rain, tossing a newspaper, missing the porch, the soggy mess of it. How Billy was only 15 and you were only 55... and newly widowed. © Kåre Enga (started July, 2017) [174.187] Note: to become a flash fiction of how going to funerals helps pass the time... |
| Oblate We spin. We cannot stop. To cease to move would be our death. This cannot be our lot. We created gravity that bears down upon our heads. We shrink as our midriff bulges. And still we dance around our god, move as if Sufi taught us how to spin. In truth... we taught them. In the delirium before the capture of our moons, betide the coalescence of fire and ice when once the spark of life begun — we spun. And still we spin rings around our middle flaring out in a dance of starlight reflection of our god, the Sun. © Kåre Enga [174.186] (22.juli.2017) |
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