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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 |
| When Winter came... Sun still shone when I crossed that bridge and the river still flowed beneath it. Grey gloom on the horizon could not stop me. The flag hung limp and the glint of rapids winked back at expectant skies. I don't deny that I miss you. But these moments move me like your radiant smile, soothe like your calming voice. When I cross that bridge that cannot be recrossed. I pray you'll be urging me onward, lighting the way. crossing a bridge no sight of the other side © Kåre Enga [27.noviembre.2016] |
| Bronze The pull of two suns that burn us, the tides that part us, force us together. Two souls as distinct as proton and electrons becoming one again. Your copper, my tin, forging a blade of bronze that slices skies throughout the galaxies, divides eternity into dark and light, separates night from day... like a yolk reluctant to lose hold of its albumen. But not gentle, never gentle. We fry in the glare of two suns becoming one, condensed into the nothingness of a black-hole, a pinpoint that can only explode into the joy of everything. © Kåre Enga [27.november.2016] |
| Fanning flames We talk like we used to talk. Wind raging. Embers lifting to skies. Flames everywhere we walked. Good times, Zmitri. Worlds knew our footsteps from light years away. Then the cooling off. You went your way; I went mine. The separation killed me so many times. Each epoch Age I fanned the flames hoping to entice your breeze. Now we walk as we always walk. And the ground trembles with your laughter. Even stars hail our reunion, wink at you and I and us. © Kåre Enga [25.novembre.2016] |
| Renewal You killed me, Zmitri. Now on this lifeless rock I will thank you for your kindness. I've been reborn, atoms rearranging to make a better me, synapses renewed, my pulse beats strong. You were right! I was wrong. I needed to die, leave behind old ways, old flesh, old thoughts. You sought to reach out to me; your kindness killed the rot that lay within. Now, this barrier between us thins. Soon we'll be together once again, dear ancient eternal friend. © Kåre Enga [18.november.2016] |
| Inhaling indigo Embers are all that remain of your ashes, sparks that reach heavenward to empty skies as moons of a thousand planets bear silent witness to my cries. I miss your voice, Zmitri, I miss your lies... about how well I'd carry on without you, about how time would gentle fly. Did you want to soothe this bruise of dying, remind me we are more than flesh left rotting, more than just the Artist and the Muse. When we last danced together, which was I; which was you? All existence forever remains connected for atoms split then recombine. How long will I have to wait my friend before I touch your face again. How many more deaths will I have to die. 'Til then, I'll rejoice each time I inhale indigo, each time I swim in a patch of clear sky blue. I'm used to beseeching the universe, Zmitri; I'd rather share my thoughts with you. © Kåre Enga [19.november.2016] In Missoula after watching "En man som heter Ove". |
| Budapest was a grand city. João decided to go up Gellert Hill in Buda since it was Saturday and the synagogue was closed for Shabbat and he wasn't Jewish... as far as he knew. The family kept its secrets and seemed to lie about so much. He met a lady along the path talking to Arthur... one of the stray Gellert cats. He stopped to chat. Seems there are kind people everywhere he thought. He was in a good mood as he climbed up flights of stairs. If only I could fly! Then he looked down and focused on going up to see the view. The Buda Hills lay off to the north. Old limestone outcroppings with mansions clinging like baubles. Below, the Danube flowing with it's tour boats and across the river Pest fanned out from the parliament. Budapest was a grand city. He decided to visit Mátyás-templon with it's floating Mary amid its decorated walls and ceilings, no negative space left blank there! He stopped in at the Loreto chapel to pay his respects; stayed for a short prayer. A moment of peace; the tourist were everywhere. That night he went to see the fountain with it's myriad colored lights. The music played on for almost an hour. Sheer wonder. He wandered back through the alleys through the Ruin Bars and sat down to relax. The ruins were lively. There was an undeniable spirit about the place. Sunday dawned grey and damp. Time to tramp off to the synagogue. He gently took out a package: one silver tooth, a clove of garlic, a non-descript worn stone. Place them at the Tree-of-Life as an offering, Agnes had said. Why not? He was intrigued by a place that had survived the Holocaust if if its member had been hunted by the Arrow Cross Party, deported and put to death. That was long before he was born; long before his mother was born... he thought. He wasn't so sure sure about his grandmother; she seemed ageless somehow. He grabbed a hat. Hat off in a Catholic church; hat on in a synagogue. He giggled at the tune in his head... hat's on... hats off... hats on... hats off... like a bad commercial or a Disney cartoon. The synagogue was awesome; the gravestones and memorial moving. The Tree-of-Life... He approach it warily. It glistened even on a grey day. Metal branches drooped, some cut off. It reminded him of the old willow back home. Not picture pretty but reassuring life continued every Spring, non-the-less. There was a plaque in front and a few stones. He'd seen stones in graveyards before. Small remembrances, enduring tributes. What did Agnes have to remember. He waited until he was alone. He placed the silver tooth with the other offerings, placed the clove of garlic carefully. He had worn gloves just in case and it was a cool day so he thought no one would notice. He took them off and held the worn stone in his palms, closed his eyes as if it could tell him what he wanted to know. He felt a ray of sunshine caress his neck, a breeze touch his cheek, a taste of salt in his mouth. He gently placed it with the other stones. The Tree-of-Life quickened. It seemed to move. He thought he heard it speak. © Kåre Enga [17.novembre.2016] About 550 words. |
| Three cinquains: 1. Orange hair. Sniffles and sneer. Blames others for his faults. What could grab your _______ and wring them? Yuge hands. 2. Cold fog hides hard landings, freezes fear of falling. Warm pee trickles until the hatch opens. 3. Snowflakes cover tender crops freezing our deepest fears of what's never out of season: hunger. © Kåre Enga [16.noiembrie.2016] |
| Hiraeth Arooooo... Moons shown as my shadow slunk below dark clouds slipped into a crack. Arooooo... I fled to cover ears and heart Arooooo... echoes from afar sought to disrupt my thoughts. Unlocked, they spilled spent moss, old bones, landed like a feather upon uncaring stone. Alone, I counted backwards from two million memories of what I'd done, for what I must atone: that time I ignored your smile, confusing love with lust, that time I bruised your equanimity, abused your sanity, rejected your sanguine touch. Such was my stupidity, my fluidity congealing like spent blood. Now I long to take back those moments. Now I see you silhouetted by a moon. steadfast as a rock, howling for me to mend my ways, wend my way. Come back... Aroooo... Come back. © Kåre Enga [14.novembre.2016] |
| Rainbows Today we make love for the first time, Zmitri. My lava rock melts your glacial countenance. I bask in your steamy smile. And in the warm ensuing flood, we ride the cresting waves through time; alack, to go our separate ways. You'll have this memory of hiss and beams; I'll forever inhale your cooling quench of thirst. What have we thrust upon this universe? O Zmitri, lover upon first sight, first ____ A billion years from now a poetic fish, on some insignificant spinning rock, will best express this moment, remembering us. And all will be rainbow, rainbow, rainbow. © Kåre Enga [12.november.2016] Inspired by Ann-Lisa who wanted a Zmitri poem... so I wrote a new one. "rainbow, rainbow, rainbow" read "The Fish" by Elizabeth Bishop. |
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