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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 |
| Earth Everyday The Sly-ones piss on us. The Ravens just soar on the winds, never touching ground. The Gryffin-fires just burn it all down. All live on this same rocky sphere; but we humble Huffers inherited the dirt. With that guy Sly we fashion mud; we join Rave to spread the dust; we build bricks with old Gryff's flame. No blame, no shame, no glory. No one knows our faces nor our names. We are the salt of the dried up puddle, the honey, the spice and vinegar, the bitter-sweetness of live itself. We are servants of these fertile soils. We never lord over it. Our power resides with our healing charms and our respect for ALL. We will always count our blessings and heed the curse, "We have given you this Earth, if you can keep it." witches warlocks work the roots — trees flower and fruit © Kåre Enga (22.april.2025) [182.35] I always think kind thoughts for THANKFUL SONALI 18 WDC Years! |
| Are you happy when I'm sappy? Roses bled red and violets wept too Until the day that I met you. And now the sun beams whenever you talk. Now flowers bloom wherever you walk. © Kåre Enga (20.april.2025) [182.30] |
| Dear Frank Dear Frank, Remember our adventures! How I tamed your wrath, how your fire roared, burning all that stood in it's path. I rode you into combat as blood splattered and gushed, then we fought until battles were won and foes hushed. We laughed together as waterfalls splashed! And watched dying embers glow beneath ash. But dragons are dragons, must be true to their kind. Tales seldom end happily. I truly don't mind. Still, dear friend, I wish we could chat like we did. I'm lonely, it's quiet inside my own head. © Kåre Enga (20.april.2025) [182.29] 10 lines "A quiet poem..." |
| As we rot Disciples held their nose, raised their robes, and walked around the rotting corpse. The dead dog had beautiful teeth, said Jesus. Who dared disagree? But we do. We point out other's faults, forget the good, amplify the bad. So shout out loud: Praise be to God, what beautiful teeth we all once had. © Kåre Enga (17.april.2024) [182.27] 8 lines https://www.huffpost.com/entry/jesus-and-the-dead-dog_b_1265657 |
| My Lifelong Friend Two days after the Ides of April, the Tax-Man looms casting shadows gloomier than the collapsing market. He wants a pound of tears and flesh regardless of whether the crops came in or customers paid their debts. Life is such a bummer. First you slobber then you work until skin wrinkles, teeth fall out and knees no longer bend. Give me Death — at least it ends when My Lifelong Friend takes me by the hand to a neverland where taxes cannot follow. © Kåre Enga (15.april.2025) [182.25] 12 lines 122.825 |
| Age of Iron Pyrite On a soft day over Cashel Rock 'twas morning mist and evening rainbows. whilst in London black skies loomed over noble greed and unseen hardship. And cloud blanketing Düsseldorf and Dortmund rained missiles on the unsuspecting. How could anyone know that this — this would be the Golden Age that in the minds of beloved grandchildren would be nostalgia that they longed for. But life blooms forever anew to those who only see clear skies and bluebells ignoring the bruise upon the land amidst the weeping forget-me-nots. © Kåre Enga (14.april.2025) [182.24] 14 lines |
| Here not here — Songkran 2568 Today, hills are tinting green; wary buds are getting ready. And in Bangkok it's hot and streamy. The mountains are alive with sleet and cold white rain. In Chiang Mai they splash water at each other. Montana's cold is slowly losing its grip. It's greening. Dusty soils await the rains in Sisaket. I'm inside at noon, writing in the cold and dreaming: Oh, to be dowsed in Udon Thani! © Kåre Enga (13.april.2025) [182.23] 122.781 |
| Where does the time go? When the clock strikes twenty-one, twenty-one, if you are still awake if I am still alive before our fight... When the clock strikes twenty-two, twenty-two, between tears and seconds spent we'll know by what's been shared that all is right... When the clock strikes thirty-one, thirty-one we've sent messages all night until dawn's reckoning. Sweet dreams, goodnight... © Kåre Enga [182.20] 10.april.25 Original in "Where does time go?"  |
| To all my ghosts No time to write a silly poem about war or peace, or chicken grease, something I know nothing about. Distracted by a piece of key lime pie, pieces of strawberries calling my name, potato chips and sundry things — life got in the way. No time for introspection or even a bath. Dead skin and ennui slough off in the shower. I didn't have time to write to you, to call out your name in vain, ghosts never answer the phone. I'm tired of being alone, tired of the echoes and ripples of the fading Past that will not let me go. Let me go! Where does the time go? I never kept track whilst I lived, and now I'll never know. So few find me hiding, fewer comment. I sent out photos of the sunset today, should send out Songkran blessings tomorrow. Postcards remain unsent. I sent a message to Wren — we're both getting old. I should feel blessed that I'm still getting older. Getting wiser is a ship that sailed without me — a long time ago. © Kåre Enga (12.april.2025) [182.21] 28 lines Original sketch in "Who knows where the time goes?" |
| Quiet after the storms Silence deafens after the storm until the wren sounds the all clear; all life thrills to their trill of joy: we live we live we live — we have survived. In the hush after the beating: the sound of steps walking away; they are heard through the tears, noted with a sigh, they will live — for one more day. The old oak has withstood the rain, a century of wind; today it rests in the bosom of mud that it once reigned over — gone with the storm. New headstones state that here they lie beneath the grass that greener grows, where no signs need proclaim with words: safe-at-last safe-at-last — do not disturb. © Kåre Enga [182.22] (12.april.2025) 20 lines Prompt: safety. Too abstract. What does safety sound like? Steps walking away? The silence after the storm? 122.773 |
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much!
I just went with the flow. Could use a minor edit but I'm happy that you like it.
