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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 |
| for Sy... There comes a softening— to our brains— when the emperor spews hate and we forget— to plug our ears. And a hardening— to our hearts— when we turn out the light that once shone within. © Kåre Enga [31.august.2016] |
| How myths move among us We went to town once, dressed as townfolk, ate as townfolk, minded our manners. It was a grey day when foreigners flocked to the yearly festival. Under dull skies we wore matching cloaks, mirrored movements, mimicked their oohs and aahs. We relished mingling unnoticed. Until one child looked me in the eye and pointed, saw beneath our disguise. We fled, just in time, and the ripples we had dared to summon returned to calm our deadened eyes. We went to town once, decades ago, when I was merely another unspoken child. Now I'm a myth moving among them. Ever ready to hide. © Kåre Enga [20.August.2016] Soft clay Rex leaves his marks in soft clay. The spice of his breath entices me... if it weren't for his spines. He glances through my dreams, then hides. Night monsters gather at dusk but he banishes them all with a flash of sunshine. Then he's not there. With a wink only his shadow remains to glide over ice, to dance over sand, prance through green meadows. He terrifies all, but not me. On my island I beg him to stay. He's left his mark in more than soft clay. © Kåre Enga [6.agosto.2016, San José] Four choices Re Johnson, Trump, Clinton, Stein He's an oasis: one palm, cool waters, undefilable, alone. He broadcasts that everyone could live this way if they chose. But—where to find one's own oasis? He doesn't know—this one is taken. Orange crested crow that scatters the meek. He seeks to annoy them with fairy tales and promises that glitter. He flitters and gloats. His boasts grate across the nerves of the proud, of the polite, all alike; except, the victims he vanguishes. He's a disgrace to all vampires, real or disguised. Hard as hematite, the unhappy principal deals with the crazies each day: hyper-sensitive board members, idealistic teachers, rowdy students, unforgiving parents. Besides a pension and pain-killers what does she gain? She thinks she's makes a difference. Snow covered, she towers, a giant spreading above the green. She's the willow that bends in the breeze or the oak that crashes in a storm. We wonder as she breathes air that her minions refreshen. She's says she's Guardian of Our Mother. But few worship at her shrine. © Kåre Enga [6.agosto.2016] Kiosko No se vee la jacaranda que huele por la noche ni los gritos de los pobres que no callan antes de la madrugada. Un raya de lejos abre los cielos. Todo tranquilo aquí. Las calles tiene su ritmo, su cadenza crece y muere. Allá el tráfico pasa en pizzocata. Los animales maullan. Los hombres esconden por las sombras bajo las lámparas de los senderos. Pocos entran por el kiosko esta noche de paz. Aquí nos sentamos, las arañas por su red. Te esperamos. © Kåre Enga [2.agosto.2016, San José] |
| Bullets in the sky Tuna cans spread wings to lift above the darkening day. What may come of this? This bumblebee that should not fly, but does. The buzz of air, the wobble of wheels, the rush, the lift. This silver gift slicing through clouds, glistening. Then the dive at the bitter end when the can splits opens, spits us out: herring, tuna, cod, the daily catch released upon the tarmac. © Kåre Enga [10.agosto.2016] La Promesa (needs major editing) Cierre los ojos! La ciudad despierta. Qué me has ofrecido? Tranquilo la madrugada. Los callejones mudos. Ojos abiertos! Corazón quebrada. Pensamientos de lo que sea, de lo que no debe ser. Cómo parece inocente la ciudad sin gente! Los zanates no conversan. La luna no canta. Las aceras no tiene ningúna opinión. En esta vida... qué me has prometido? © Kåre Enga [9.agosto.2016] Flesh and Fiction We're all fiction: our names mere labels, inadequate constrictions. They cannot contain our disparate predictions that leak beyond the frontiers of flesh we violate. Our days countdown to our rest, our death some new beginning. What tales told become more lies that don't define us. Can't confine our lives to here and now. We've climbed through those nightmares, fled with dreams to dance with the devil who dares to bind us. © Kåre Enga [29.julio.2016] PZ, Costa Rica al camino... Dare! Under a cold sky the city allows no stars to show us the way. All hope blotted out. All chance to leave aborted. Within, all shivers. Hope withers when sun and moon have fled, address unknown. But the multitudes on high who listen to our prayers, could show us a way... if they dare. © Kåre enga [28.julio.2016] PZ/MT |
| Ennui Fog settles into the folds as mountains embrace me. Tendrils grasp legs and wrists. No need to struggle. Cold battles warmth: nothing will ever matter. Under an uncaring cloak I slumber... eyelids too heavy, arms limp spaghetti, legs numbing to another grey day. Dreams of running through fields fade to pools of langour, mist rising mollifying each sound, removing all color from sight. © Kåre Enga [25.august.2016 added 28.08] |
| There comes a hardening to the innocent— a sharpening— before last breath —as eyes that have seen too much— cloud over. Shrieks of growing up silence into mist and myth —remembered as innocence— untouched by time. But touched they were— by soft rain— hard hands— the tear of skin— the healing scab. The moving away from innocence —that never was— that never will be again. © Kåre Enga [11.august.2016] Missoula |
| Written in two parts then juxtaposed... for now. One is based in the reality around me; the other on... Nightmares and Nosebleeds Nightmares lurk under the pillow. And from my nose—red rivulets running, running—brown stains on the dusty sheets by morning. Pine cones, ants, stone and sand... I am searching for my letter to you and wondering why Alberth isn't where he belongs—beside me. Strands of dry grass, new sprouts of poplar... I have no clue which country I've journeyed to. I'm searching, searching for clues. Sprouts from old roots. I've stirred the dust of three weeks away, the layers remain from years of not caring. The balding tops of old trees. Dry air enters my mouth, exits my nostrils. Low water burbling, no rush to the sea. What I see: I'm normal they say. But you know better. How many letters have pointed the way? green where roots reach the water, bare where they don't. 44 hundred pages I've written and still the nightmares remain hidden. Clouds tease blue sky. Heat rises to the third floor each day—and each is dryer than any future before me. City sounds dampened by trees and river. Blood seeps into sheets. No water left for tears. But never silent. Never the way it once was. © Kåre Enga [13 and 14 avgust.2016] |
| Twilight in Troms Greys swirl before shaded eyes that search for light. Dawn promises nothing. Skies brighten to silver, fade to charcoal within the hour. White slivers on bleak peaks and black ice remind her she's alive. She dances through a fog of frankincense, embraces red candles, sips amber. In her tiara, she banishes the winter dressed in blue, yellow, green. She dreams of purple and her dimming memories of Autumn, hails approaching Spring. Greys swirl past her eyes. And then—a glimpse of indigo remembered. all grey one shaft of indigo © Kåre Enga [6.avgust.2016] Written in Costa Rica but thinking of Cecilie Liv Moe in Troms. |
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