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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 |
| A star winking, a man gazing at a rope. At dawn who will notice his corpse alongside the dark Moon's perception, the periphery of false hope. © Kåre Enga 26.October.2014. Scratching during a reading. |
| ChPaaQn Like white peeling bark, like a snag high above the male mountains, Sleeping Woman shines, her glistening peak a gathering of clouds she wrings dry. Ermine clothed in Autumn, she holds the elixir of Spring waters to slake the parch of Summer. © Kåre Enga 26.october.2014. Formerly known as Squaw Peak. 7.989 ft or 2.435 m. Just quick notes to expand on later. |
| Kansas 1975 '60 Pontiac, french blue, tail light fading in Hiawatha; in Sabetha, grill coming sat ya, gleaming; pocked country road, the 389 cruising at 80, dust flying; the song of a meadowlark in the corn; finally, freedom. Kansas, an open road. © Kåre Enga 7.september.2014 Original title: "Memory of 1975"; Catherine suggested the present title which is stronger. Not so random thoughts. A memory of 1975. Needs a better title. I use titles... helps me find them. |
| This too is the West This is the West: an image of cowboys-n-injuns, coyotes-n-bears, guns cocked, cocks stiff and ready. And this is the West: Blackfeet cowboys rustling up steers, the last bison grazing, bears scarce, wolves aware they're not wanted. While limp cocks-of-the-walk seek bitches and pussy in pale tattoo parlors, the library parking lot, pink punk rock bars. Yes, hikers still speak of Wilderness: the snow blocked pass, the fire-in-the-woods, a huckleberry patch. It's still out there. And songs still howl about who-left-who but the beat hops to an earsplitting screech. Stops at midnight as drunks remember they have exams this week. This too is the West: a cowgirl finishing her Environmental Studies degree, a Biker her training to be an EMT. a Blackfeet her hard earned J.D. © Kåre Enga 26.october.2014 |
| Autumn of Ebola We sat as far apart as decent, dared not breathe without our masks. We whispered, wailed, wondered. What would come at last? Crossroads of soil and flesh, these polluted waters of blood confuse us, lead us to question doubts before the storm and the flood. © Kåre Enga - 7 October 2014 Bare unaware Robert floated down the river, bare ass burning in the sun. The raft bouncing, slowly moving with the current, around the rocks. He slept arms and legs lashed together. Children pointed at him as he passed. Under the bridge, head turned, he breathed. Too bad he'd never wake up. © Kåre Enga - 9 October 2014 Two dreary poems. Posted because? That's what I do. |
| Shrouded before his time Gently dab each orifice, cleanse each unhealed wound, Rose water, tears anoint him. He who met untimely doom. Soft wrap of cotton, the worm asleep, cocooned till wings spread and flutter. Ruth mutters, why? then swoons. © Kåre Enga 10 October 2014. I decided to just enter and reserve judgment later. A good thing? It allows me to not waste energy. I need to get stuff on-line here to look at and edit later. Not all of it will be stellar. It needn't be. 78,395 |
| This dissonance Attracted to one, in lust with another, the bee finds its favorite flower brother, thinks it has fallen in love. In Spring when the air warms up, in Summer as roses bloom, their fragrance a taste of honey and doom, when trapped by the changing weather as dry as the drought on your heather, no kiss blown my way. Yet lust and the falling in love, a Never that bears no fruit, only pain. I wither then drop to rot in Autumn's rain. © Kåre Enga September, 2014 another recent scratching that needs an edit or a haircut or... something. Just posting is an accomplishment! |
| Emerald Aurora for Emily Withnall Green veils summon eyes to hear silence deep within northern melodies, an artic dance, around this frozen pole: arpeggios across starlit sky, decrescendos of pink and orange, silk that shimmers, speaks her name, an eternity's caress of words held close as emeralds. Dear Emily, who shimmers now to music of these mystic nights, who dances? © Kåre Enga 11.October.2014 So it needs work... but better here to see what needs to be done! |
| Have no idea where these two will go. I put them here to someday edit. Jesus wept. Plum bosoms glistened. [a] Old maid on cherry bench; ice melting. [b] © Kåre Enga 30.September.2014. [171B.] |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.