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 LV 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 |
Divide Together we fell from a cloud to wet the mountain peak where we parted ways. We slid downwards, each to our own destiny, off to different seas. But drops do not control their fortune or fate. In a cafe far away we sit in bottles at the back of a shelf. Apart together, bound not free. Until we're both sold to travel side-by-side. With our benefactors' kiss, united once more. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.125.s] (25.mai.2021) |
Butterfly Herbs on the 22nd of May salted caramel the clatter of dishes soft music harmonizes with hushed chatter under tin ceilings older than the living who after a year stuck in their caves venture forth to sit as always among bins of coffee and jars of tea all seems normal even the snowflakes in the early morning gracing the hills adorning the trees © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.122] (22.mai.2021) 12 lines. Butterfly Herbs is a cafe in Missoula, Montana. Submitted to
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So much promise So much promise but you slink away to the west not even bothering to tell the flag that now hangs limp. We would wave if we had a glimpse of a glow. No. Another sunset is never promised and skies darken as we wonder about dawn. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.124.s] (24.mai.2021) |
Declaration of The Bab Was it raining that night when the Heavens opened up and spoke. Did the fragrance of flowers or the songs of nightbirds intrude. Did it matter. A moment linked to other moments, suspended in time, when ground-dwellers begged for a message from the Sky. Did it rain then too. Not winds nor sunshine ever mattered to those deaf to mercy, to those blind to grace, dumb from whatever rained down upon them from threatening clouds. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.123.s] (22.mai.2021) Declaration of The Bab, 22 May 1844, 2 hours after sunset |
Answers come at dawn Grey over grey. I cannot see the mountains clearly at the hour of the dying of the day. Oh, to have new eyes! New ears to hear the river's wailing. New nose to smell the heat of spices. New heart to thank young Bri for gifts of food. What good can come to moaning at the edge of night when the answer comes at dawn. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.98.s] (20.mai.2021) |
Age of Mayflies Time creeps as light grey deepens to charcoal no embers glowing in the sky to mark the passing of another Age of Mayflies, their lives as short as ours, mere hours between the rising and setting of an earthbound passage, as our last cries echo that moment we burst forth and filled our lungs with breath. Now we empty them to seek the tomb, eternal womb, to mark the passing through the night into another realm of light. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.121] (19.mai.2021) |
Even the boxes... No sunset worthy of leaving my bed. An hour later a faint blue glow in the northwest teases me. I know its game. It ducks behind the mountains to reappear at some ungodly morning hour. As if I care. This day of nothing's followed by more nothingness. Even the boxes I gather to store my memories remain unfilled. Even the boxes... © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.120] (18.mai.2021) Posted at
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I catch the glow that doesn't know it's shifting from gold to orange on the edge of twilight. It's westward bound, an elder hound. I'm sighing. Another liminal space I must traverse to call it mine for fleeting moments and new-found memories. I stash them where the sun can't burn them. The flag has turned its back and the river churns as the traffic churns crossing by the bridge above it. Everyone but me going somewhere. Even the glow abandons me until the dawn as the night pulls down its shade. orange flickers at twilight's edge — the night pulls down its shade © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.119.s.gz] (17.mai.2021) |
By the window One star twinkles at twilight as he searches for the one you wished upon — waiting to hear its answer. As the glow slips below the silhouetted branches and the alpenglow slides up cold mountain slopes to the pine-green treeline the cooling breeze whispers names. He listens for yours roaring down the canyon, sprinting from the east, past the landing's window, sunset bound. the big star sets — the old man sits by the window © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.118.s.gz] (16.mai.2021) A serenade - at evening. A gzaibun - haibunish form. Or... "the old man dies by the window" |
Invitation for Bri an invitation for pizza — ham and tomato on flat bread — we talk about coffee — the cafe life we used to lead — how the plague hit and the stone was rolled in front of our cave — how we struggled within our coccoon — hands tied, feet tied, voice hushed — we try to burst out in buds, blossom to greet the spring, but — a year of darkness reminds us that nothing will be as before — and what was lost will never return — we sit at the table — pizza in hand — the fragrance of coffee wafting its warmth © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga, [178.83] (13.mai.2021) 8 irregular long lines 16/14/14/14/15/16/15/14 |