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!
passed away November 12, 2005
Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
These pictures rotate.
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
|Not letting go...
Leaves and flowers come and go
but deep roots hold on tight.
Snags whisper ancient tales
to eagles tired of flight,
and to those who make it home at night
avoiding raptors eyes
as roots that once rived the rocks
still hold fast their prize.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.341] (29.januar.2022)
|hyacinth = regret
foxglove = protection
plumbago = hope
Her hyacinths bloomed a month late
red-purple tears clinging to a stalk
small fleshy stars, fragrant,
They couldn't bring her back,
not her fingers planting their bulbs,
not her waiting all winter long,
not her longing.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.337] (27.januar.2022)
Snug in the foxglove, the faeries hid
from the rain, the bumblebee too,
the occasional fly,
the hungry spider.
All sought refuge inside the cloak
felt the storm sway the stalk
as if to ring the bells
to sing "you are safe".
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.338] (27.januar.2022)
The sun fell, leaving a carpet of light
blue blooms on bright green leaves
Not matter how often the gardener
clipped and fashioned them
they always sprung forth with joy
for where there was there joy
...there was hope.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.339] (27.januar.2022)
Red geraniums sit back
from the window sill:
too cold, too drafty;
peer out at the snow (shudder).
Frozen fog blurs the divide
between greys: dull and bright,
defined now as white on white
beyond splashes of crimson.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.334] (26.januar.2022)
The blast, riven the rock
as Buddha's face fell,
stirring up dust
that slowly settled.
But the heart cannot be denied
as over the rubble
moss grows like stubble,
slowly reclaiming its own.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.333] (24.januar.2022)
Bamiyan Buddhas destroyed 2001.
on a wintry day —
baked apple pie
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.330a] (23.january.2022) In response to a fb post.
spumoni ice cream
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.330b] (23.january.2022)
talk when suits have left
furtive sparrows (bored penguins)
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.330c] (23.january.2022) In response to a fb post.
|Hammock in the sky
Rise me up above this ennui
let me fly where eagles soar
where ghosts and unicorns once played
fashioning the wispy hoar.
Here thoughts have wings and dreams range free
where I can stretch and let time flow;
between two fluffy bunny ears,
let me rest where daydreams go.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.328] (22.january.2022)
In My Hands
I hold you tight.
You're in good Hands.
My Love will guide you
through the storms, and
keep you on this Path;
but, do not fear
heights nor depths. Go.
Walk in peace.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.329] (22.january.2022)
Gave up on Life long ago 7
Gave up on feasting, content with crumbs 5/4
Yet birds survive on very little 9
before winter's icy blast. 7
Then they snuggle in a tree 7
or abandoned freeze at last alone. 9
For without friends we often struggle 9
Hold me tight my (childhood) chum. 5(7)
The Sky's hem unravels,
first the golden thread,
then the scarlet,
leaving only indigo
Night's curtain descends,
a charcoal shroud
with pinprick holes
as frayed edges dim,
bowing to the New Moon's ebony
when Void's brighter shade,
fills the silent air
as thick blankets of clouds
move in and smother
hope with despair.
Mirrored in the buffalo's eyes
To see sunrise mirrored
in the buffalo's eyes,
glinting off the flooded fields
where thin blades of rice
wait for a breeze to bring it news.
The morning's traffic
sings the market's dawn song,
those precious moments
before the day warms up,
as it has for hundreds of years.
The monkeys nod. The buffalos know.
The elephants too.
They tried to slow down the two-legged ones
who scurry among them.
They gave up centuries ago.
no life, no death,
no wind, no need for wings,
Give life to words
that breed the need for wings
that flutter, start
Faded jottings, grey on yellow,
fill the space between the margins,
crawl across long lonely lines,
stumble over each erasure,
circle doodles in torn corners —
Once — but that transpired long ago,
my mind constrained, this notebook blank;
dour thoughts spilled and stained the pages,
now stacked journals holding secrets,
jaundiced like abandoned ivory —
But in the back — a pristine sheet!
My hand trembles, grabs a pencil —
scribbling once more.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.323] (20.januar.2022)
2nd place for Jnuary '22
Prompt: A BLANK PAGE. Taboo words: fresh, clean, new, promise, resolutions, or any derivatives of these words
Nesting here in my blubble,
the spring-green meadows beckon;
the darkest purple waning
as indigo shifts to blue.
When will this lonely blubble
burst forth in golden smiles,
your laughter sundering world,
blue, blue, so blue without you.
© Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.325] (21.januar.2022)
Blue + bubble = blubble, a sad lonely place.