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 |
Moon over Lithuania My grumpy face comes natural. It's not that I'm unhappy. It's those dang cats howling again, then hissing at each other. My nose beams in balance with Earth, the Void, and a thousand stars. What you see is who I am; yet, Ying and Yang sing who they are. Kåre Enga [180.24] (10.mai.2023) 8 lines: 8/7 ๆ |
Deep. As in bottomless. As in never-ending nightmares. As in looking into your eyes and drowning. Deeper. Deeper still. Until gasping I resurface devoid of all fear. Then waking, shaking, making the bed we share, imagining it's full of air. |
Am I getting stronger as I age? Bones become brittle, muscles soften, brain atrophies; but, I do notice how everything around me has become stronger. If the stench of my rotting flesh could fend off the future... I'd live forever. |
Going home It's almost over: the ticket bought, the rent paid up, my nerves now spent. So — was it worth it? one never knows, one only hopes, and you decide to keep my happy, to say hello, or let me go, one last goodbye. KE [180.21] (30.april.2023) 12 lines, no rhyme, meter: 5/4/4/4 |
Howl caught a cold Grunts and coughs, barely a whisper. What can Wind do if it cannot blow? Caress a child's cheek? Lift and warm the spirits? How can it redirect clouds? How can it banish Winter? But the howl had caught a cold. And now it could barely whisper. Kåre Enga [180.16] (11.april.2023) |
Of yellow kites and your green umbrella At the water's edge I dream of yellow kites, and that green umbrella, keeping me from getting burnt. I'll burn regardless, consumed by your flames, hotter than the sun, turning water into steam. copyright Kåre Enga [180.15] (10.april.2023) |
Cloven I cleave your breast, rip it open, expose your heart. I find a snug place to grow where once you flourished. You welcome this change, holding onto life long after death. It's in the sheltering, this last embrace. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.13] (9.april.2023) Cloven I cleave your breast, rip it open, expose your heart. I find a snug place to grow where once you grew. You welcome this change, hold onto life long after death. It's in the sheltering, the last embrace. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.13] (9.april.2023) |
Happiness: No worries, no obsessing about the could'ves, would'ves, should'ves, letting go of balloons to pursue their dreams, walking through the dappled days of reality, feet to the ground, embracing small miracles along the way. 34w [8] Sadness: Once again, the letting go, the grieving, your hand slipping out of mine, your heart beating out of time, stopped forever. Greatest sadness? No. Stepping on an ant. Not watering a plant. Not asking you to marry me. 38w [9] I deserve: No more, no less. I've been cursed and blessed. Didn't deserve either. Grace and mercy, the kindness of strangers, the virtues that elude me, vanity staring back at me from the mirror whispering: let go. 35w [10] Our Love: Your leg traps me, your arms hug, your body keeps me warm. In love? In lust? Or just two lost pieces of the puzzle hooking up. Do I dare let go? Outside of time, each moment matters in this place. 40w [11] Spring: Heat and smoke give way to wind and rain. Snow melts under an unrelenting sun. What remains in Isan, or Montana, if not the mud that covers us, ushers in the change of seasons, urging us to let go. 37w [12] |
We all die Be realistic! We all die, yet some never live — and some die twice. We all die, perhaps to meet again — suffering won't suffice. Live! Live! Live! How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again! © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.7] (26.mars.2023) Inspired by "Death Is Nothing At All" by Henry Scott-Holland. Earlier version: We all die Be realistic! We all die, yet some never live — and some die twice. We all die, perhaps to meet again — so savor each moment. Live! Live! Live! How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again! © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.7] (26.mars.2023) Inspired by "Death Is Nothing At All" by Henry Scott-Holland. |
Wednesday's lament ... green turns grey at sunset 6 I dress in Sunday's red 8 or pretty-in-pink on Tuesdays. 0 Lonesome blues of Friday come each week; but, 6 Yellow cheers up Mondays. 6 I'm not some messed-up clown, 8 can't turn my smile upside down, 0 and dare not strut in tan like officers. 6 I've never been The Man. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.6] (25.mars.2023) Notes: I left the syllable count to show structure. There's some rhythm, rhyme and spare alliteration. The Thai colors of the week: red, yellow, pink, green/grey, orange, blue, purple. I wrote this on a purple day. |