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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/982524-Laura-del-Campo/month/7-1-2016
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Rated: 13+ · Book · Personal · #982524
Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation.
*Delight*          *Bigsmile*          *Cool*

L'aura del campo

'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣


Higgins Street Bridge, April 25th 2009, Missoula, Montana


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*Flower2*V*Flower2* COMMENTS!

On a practical note, in answer to your questions:

Gifts from NOVAcatmando kiyasama alfred booth, wanbli ska ransomme Iowegian Skye

Merit Badge in Reviewing [Click For More Info] For your support and suggestions on my haiku "Lone Poinsettia" which took second place in the contest and will be published. Thanks for helping make it a winning poem! Merit Badge in Nano Winner [Click For More Info] CONGRATULATIONS on your achievement! *^*Bigsmile*^* Merit Badge in Reviewing [Click For More Info] For help finding a title for my first chapbook. We're not there yet, but your ideas are always interesting.
Merit Badge in Funny [Click For More Info] Merit Badge in Friendship [Click For More Info] Thanks for being my friend. Hugz! grannym Merit Badge in Appreciation [Click For More Info] For brightening my day with your delightful offerings ~ Thank you so much! *^*Heart*^*


IN MEMORIUM

VerySara

passed away November 12, 2005

Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
More suggested links:

Before the strom, Bushton's water tower.
These pictures rotate.



 Kåre *Leaf5* Enga
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
The Fish
July 14, 2016 at 7:06pm
July 14, 2016 at 7:06pm
#887425
A group of 'poems' that have been slightly edited and eventually will have their own entry to be rated and reviewed.

There comes
a softening
to the empty bowl
when filled with noodles—
a warming broth
—when winds freeze all—
a moments hunger
blessed

© Kåre Enga [171.C1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to her womb
when flushed
the afterbirth—a gift—
to eat or bury

© Kåre Enga [171.C2] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
come September
when Dragon's breath
of July's dust
and August's swelter
once southward bound
leaves but embers.

© Kåre Enga [171.D1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to coarse sand
when wave upon wave
sorts the shells
and stone grit
knocks off edges
sharpness only
a memory of life
the beach can never know.

© Kåre Enga [171.D2] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to castles built of sand
awaiting waves
to fill their moats
to undermine their towers
until tomorrow
when they're built once more
from dreams
that will not wash away.

© Kåre Enga [171.E1] (23 November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to mathematics
when straight lines
and straight perceptions yield
to fractals
of rocky shores
of sandy islands
and melting icebergs
to equations
of you and I
and us.

© Kåre Enga [171.E2] (23 November 2014)

There comes a
softening
to dungeon walls
when excrement casts spells
in a sadist's crave
for rhyme or reason
where no remorse
among lost syllables
cries out
I will not be forgotten
nor washed away
by time.

© Kåre Enga [171.F1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to old stone walls
where flowers perch
in sunshine
where now I lean
to gather warmth
around me.

© Kåre Enga [171.F2] (23 November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to a marble bust
when scarf-covered
to add some color
draped to warm
its inner heart
of stone.

© Kåre Enga [171.G1] (23 November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to the crystal vase
when filled with acid
tongue and cheek
the spit of lies
and the corrosive cries
of whine and roses.

© Kåre Enga [171.G2] (23 November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to new brick
when ivy climbs
and covers it
in a cloak of green
its nakedness
caressed by moss
small cracks
the wildflowers home.

© Kåre Enga [171.H1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to the royal pew
the altar of the chosen few
when once chagrined
now welcomes others
to sit and join
their feasts

© Kåre Enga [171.H2] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
of the light
stone cold
that rules my night
of ice
of Summer's Winter.

© Kåre Enga [171.I1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to new shoes
when each day's walked
to and fro
and there are no others
to take their place
to give them rest
until replaced.

© Kåre Enga [171.I2] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to unknown fear
when faced
and better still
when the other face
shows kindness
smiles.

© Kåre Enga [171.J1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
to frozen meat
the wild caught salmon
the hunted elk
the neighbor's cat or dog
when storms come through
and down the lines
connecting civilization
to refrigeration
returning all to mush
to take out
to the compost heap.

© Kåre Enga [171.J2] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
of flesh
when heavy lid
weighs down the bone
when stone of tomb
proves mightier
than the sword
of intellect
or pen.

© Kåre Enga [171.K1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening
of the soil
when rains drench all
and slake our thirst
of flower, fog and frog
the dying mind
that strives
to birth
a thought.

© Kåre Enga [171.K2] (November 2014)

The comes
a softening
to dough
when probed by fingers
cut and weighed
stretched out then measured
cinnamon sugared—rolled
then cut again and shaped
to rise in warmth again.

© Kåre Enga [171.K3] (13 January 2015)

There comes
a softening
to spite
when light
streams in
and hearts connect
or when darkness (humbles)
makes us huddle
extinguishing
the space between
us and them.

© Kåre Enga [171.K4] (January 2015)

79,912
July 12, 2016 at 5:29pm
July 12, 2016 at 5:29pm
#887213
There comes
a softening—
to the sonnet
when feminine rhyme
takes over
and consonant clusters
dissolve to vowels
and harsh words
bring forth hope—
once healed.

© Kåre Enga [171.A1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening—
to iron crosses
when time topples
their rusty limbs
and human symbols
return like flesh
to nourish earth.

© Kåre Enga [171.A2] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening—
to the mic
when moistened lips
pressed together
part in music—
as black and white
fade to blues.

© Kåre Enga [171.B1] (November 2014)

There comes
a softening—
to random clutter
once stocked in piles
now slouched by doors—
their destination
oblivion,
the dumpster.

© Kåre Enga [171.B2] (November 2014)
79,897
July 11, 2016 at 10:15pm
July 11, 2016 at 10:15pm
#887131
There comes—
great turbulence—
to the quiet mind
bent on tomorrow's
replay of yesterday
when world churn
and truth lay overturned
exposed like worms
by the farmer's furrow
—now robin prey.

© Kåre Enga [173.W1] (08.juli-2016)

There comes—
a softening—
to hard packed clay
when rain fills cracks
and children play
as pavement
—puddlicious—
remind one now grey—
of the last big storm
a century ago.

© Kåre Enga [173.W2] (08.juli.2016)
July 9, 2016 at 4:06pm
July 9, 2016 at 4:06pm
#886929
There come
—soft landings
when Father's money cushions
inevitable falls
from grace or failure
for the son jumping to the stars
when a warm bed beckons
and as he grows up
and puts on a uniform
when the grass catches him
before he stiffens
under clods of new dug clay.

© Kåre Enga [173.X1] (9.July.2016)
July 8, 2016 at 1:04pm
July 8, 2016 at 1:04pm
#886840
to the lollipop

There comes
—a lessening
to the lollipop
—when licked by a dog—
held by the hand
of the god he worships
—and to the heart
when old age passes
and he's laid to rest
in a cardboard box
under the trees
he once watered.

© Kåre Enga [171.T2] (31.December.2014)


to stress

There comes
—a lessening
to stress
when instead of 'have to'
one can acquiesce
ready to face
the consequence
of being human
—hardly perfect—
but up to do the task
—just one more soul
on one Life's path
that presently
one chooses.

© Kåre Enga [171.T1] (22.December.2014)
July 1, 2016 at 6:47pm
July 1, 2016 at 6:47pm
#886193
I miss the red wine communists, the smoky rooms with piles of yellowed books. —Anna Lisa

And she did. Her eyes were red from lack of sleep and her skin jaundiced from too little...

It didn't matter. She had a story to write even if she had to tell her own. A boring headache that would be, she sighed.

Then put pen to blank page and began to doodle. A few lines here and there signifying nothing. But it was her tale not theirs.

Theirs were told by famous people, pressed between pages like dead roses or translucent poppies. Old stories; sad stories. Almost as boring as hers but she wasn't sitting on the shelf molding. At least, not yet.

She intended to get there some day. Pages stained by wine or coffee, corners frayed by readers who could not stop. She'd settle for that. Even if they were tainted pink from faded red. Even if "they" were fascist... but why would one of them ever read about her. She wasn't powerful nor into controlling others. She had nothing to offer them.

She missed those red wine communists, those rosé socialists, even those cigar smoking writers with their piles of yellowed tomes.

© Kåre Enga [1.juli.2016]

Inspired by the quote above made by Anna Lisa.

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/982524-Laura-del-Campo/month/7-1-2016