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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 |
| House of Orange-Combover and random thoughts. 1. The House of Orange-Combover (because Orange-Nassau rules The Netherlands): King Donald 1st, Queen Consort Melania and Crown Princess Ivanka. 2. For eight years, Barack and Michele have been called 'niggers' behind their backs. They've responded with grace and style. Do not expect a similar response for the next four years. 3. I loved the color orange! It was warm and rhymed with nothing. So me. But now it has been stolen to fir under a crown for a clown. Without orange I'm left without rainbows. Sad, sad me. 4. "because if I share my name, I might lose my citizenship." 5. Orange limp growth covers an empty landscape. How much Monsanto does he shower with? 6. "Grow some balls" said the bull to the cow. "I ate yours for supper" she replied, "been sick for four years". |
| Snowfall Ashfall Its hush silences the comings and goings of the restless, the clueless, the hurried. It divides those who pass among it, binds those who huddle in frozen fear. Its whiteness stares out through the half-light of dawn, softens the brightness of noon, twinkles by starlight, tinkles, almost unheard. Its hush... a life-giving restorer of poor soils. Destroyer of what struggles to live. Preserver of what cannot move out of its way, of what has come before. Dark clouds of death, grey film coating of Earth's lungs. Combined with moisture it flows in a deadly flash of steaming mud, cooling to replenish what gnaws at our feet. © Kåre Enga [3.decembre.2016] |
| Hugo His eyes follow me; his heartwood hidden by the fumes of scotch. His letters were delivered long ago but still remembered in Pony and Dixon, memorialized in black typeface on white papers pressed between covers sitting on shelves. Silent but not forgotten they wait for gentle hands, an opening to a page where his words point the way for fellow poets. "Listen to the hearts of people", they admonish, "the voice of the patient land". In the weft and warp hear them weave; honor their journey; give them wings of flight. © Kåre Enga [1.diciembere.2016] Sitting with Ann Bodle-Nash in the Dell Brown Room listening to a reading (Hannah Bissell?). |
| Crickets We circle around each other caught in a tidal grip, our spawn strewn in a thin glint of glitter between us, illumined by two distant blue stars. We are — stretched to the limit. No matter that we cannot touch We gaze only for each other. We spin closer; we feel the pull around the empty center a non-relenting gravity of Time that binds us to the Inevitable that fills our universe with expectant dread. Long after we are dead, our children will curse our names, the sound of their screams and moans — like crickets. © Kåre Enga [1.december.2016] |
| Worth all of Time itself The sky's gone black; my firmament lies lifeless, an expanse as still as ice, as slow as rock. I've looked for you in every hidden spot, listened to each atom's gossip. I've searched in the folds of Time where yesterdays touch tomorrows, where they make todays worthwhile. Your salty taste, your musky smell would guide me to you, if Nothingness had senses. If I could conjugate the tense of longing, if evidentials revealed only truth, in truth, I'd rue the day I made you leave, banished you to recesses of what-was and what-could-never-be, so unaware that everything alive lives only in the present. What present could you give to me worth all of Time itself? Light a light! Torch a star! That I may find you. © Kåre Enga [30.november.2016] |
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