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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 |
| Skumring Without sun there are no shadows. The winter lay deep in darkness. No shadows for two months. And none in sight if clouds didn't part. I sat up. Leif lay next to me, breathing in, breathing out. Such are dreams before nightmares start. Time to leave him then. Peace comes to those who do not tempt fate. It was early, still dark. I dare not leave too late. I looked at his brow, eyes set wide apart. Ran my hand through his hair. Clouds cleared that day, and the sun came out... ... after two months away south. I headed north. Where there is no light there are no shadows. © Kåre Enga [skrev i Tromsø, 24.januar.2016] 79,534 Rough translation: Skumring Uten sol er det ingen skygger. Vinteren lå dypt i mørket. Ingen skygger i to måneder. Og ingen i sikte kvis skyene gjorde ikkje en del. Eg satte meg opp. Leif lå ved siden av meg, puster inn, puster ut. Slikt er drømmer før mareritt starte. Tid for å forlate ham da. Fred kommer til de som ikkje friste skjebnen. Det var tidlig, fortsatt mørkt. Eg tør ikke forlate for sent. Eg så på pannen, øyne satt langt fra kvarandre. Kjørte min hånd gjennom håret hans. Skyene fjernet den dagen, og sola kom ut ... ... Etter to måneder unna sør. Eg dro nordover. Kvar det ikkje er lys er det ingen skygger. |
I'm back to entering thoughts and insights on my T-log, "On The Write Path"  .Ah... now in Norway. This is something I wrote in Montana at the end of 2015: "I don't write Montana poems. I do not thrive in mountain shadow under low slung clouds that block the sun. I don't do dust, dry dirt. Lust for life on a mountain goat's ledge does not allure me. I'd rather die elsewhere. In this place that calms nerves and heals, I sought refuge, a warm embrace, wisdom whispered from pine and water. I'm still waiting. Today or... tomorrow? I don't write poems for Montana. I write from pain and sorrow." © Kåre Enga [31.desember.2015] |
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