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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 |
| Class Ass His throat hurts from shoving both feet down it. Surely a lesson to keep his mouth shut... He tells himself this every time, always a tad too late, as lips open to expell air, to share thoughts others need not hear, opinions they need not bear, as the venom of vomit spreads, tainting all with its touch. His throat throbs with the ache of shame, blame and promises that next time he'll keep his mouth shut. He tries so hard not to be an ass. He's not succeeding. © Kåre Enga (25.avril.2017) [174.48] |
| Making rösti I grab a potato, before morning breaks, try not to draw blood as I peel it's skin careful of fingers, I grate to the end, I must work quickly, before you awake. I add garlic, parsley, add a pinch more. I cry over onions, stir in a yolk, remember our fight, harsh words I misspoke, then fry to a crisp, pancakes you adore. I go to our bedside, breakfast on a tray, orange juice and coffee to brighten your day. Before I awake you I sit down and sketch your splotched wrinkled skin, inhale morning's breath. You snore beautifully, what more can I say? Before dawn's light, I made rösti today. © Kå re Enga (24.abril.2017) [174.47] Rösti = Swiss potato pancakes Dew Drop Inn #23... write a sonnet they said...  Earlier version: I grab a potato, before morning breaks, try not to draw blood as I peel it's skin careful of fingers, I grate to the end, I must work quickly, before you awake. I add garlic, parsley, add a pinch more. I cry over onions, stir in a yolk, remember our fight, harsh words I misspoke. I fry to a crisp, pancakes you adore. I go to our bedside, breakfast on a tray, orange juice and coffee to brighten your day. Before I awake you I sit down and sketch splotchy wrinkled skin; inhale morning's breath. You snore beautifully, what more can I say? Before dawn's light, I made rösti today. 80.804 |
| Blood moon rising Smoke of sedition; grey pall falling; fire of perdition; Blood Moon rising. We huddle in darkness; thunder rumbles. Brightness of a slash renders all asunder. What have You wrought, we cry out to clouds. Cracks a response: you've done this to yourselves. Smoke of sedition; grey pall falling; fire of perdition; Blood Moon rising. Valleys cleave in two as both sides quiver, gaze across the gap, for once we were one. Earth begins to crumble; we flee deepened chasms widening between us. Too late, we have lost. Smoke of sedition; grey pall falling; fire of perdition; Blood Moon rising. © Kåre Enga (23.april.2017) [174.46] |
| Wraith of His Realm brought to you by the letter R and puce, the color of a fading bruise Rumbles kept him alive, reminded him what remained of todays, presents he rejected. He reminisced of once being ten, the _____ he could not recollect. Even that... had been repossessed. Rigid, he sat at a window stared at a river raging over rocks heard the rhythm of the roads floating over flat roofs up to where he rested secure in his corner, the Wraith of His Realm, afraid of going out. © Kåre Enga (22.april.2017) [174.45] 80,796 |
| What lingers What could not be said lay between us long suffering moans reluctant death blurred boundary of reality created of its own fantasy more smoke than fire, like a promise of water that did not quench our thirst. For years it hung like a veil between us then like the mists of time... faded with regrets. © Kåre Enga (20.aprille.2017) [174.44] For Dew Drop Inn #20 - what lingers |
| In Beara On soft mornings when vanished water reappears dividing a landscape by brook and bracken, harsh to the touch, softened by mist and always ready to turn your ankle... Beware! You'll fall for it: golden gorse and pink heather, stoned coffins lined with moss, starving for your flesh. © Kåre Enga (20.abril.2017) [174. 43] Beara, County Kerry/Cork, Ireland. Written while listening to Leanne O'Sullivan at Fact & Fiction. |
| Aleppo Thousands of years to raise these walls, these bombed out walls. How many centuries to rebuild them? Will we care to rebuild them. What ties severed will be re-tied or never rejoined in other lands where our ways will fade into foreign tapestries, mere threads among the millions. Here or there, we will survive, but our land, our walls, our way of life will vanish. © Kåre Enga (20.april.2017) [174.42] Earlier version Aleppo A thousand years to raise these walls, these bombed out walls. How many centuries to rebuild them? Will we care to rebuild them. What ties severed will be re-tied or never rejoined in other lands where our ways will fade into foreign tapestries, one mere thread among the millions. Here or there, we will survive, but our land, our walls, our way of life will vanish. © Kåre Enga (20.april.2017) [174.42] Dew Drop Inn #24: starting over 80.772 |
| Twinflower Five pendulous lobes each hang in pairs. Our pistils pregnant as leaves expectant celebrate new specks of being. So tiny. Smaller even than our pink corollas that begged the bee to visit, sip sweet nectar, leave a grain of pollen to spark new life. Oh how simple things provide such wonder; how joyous to be alive. © Kåre Enga (20.april.2017) [174.41] (Dew Drop Inn prompt #22) The flower of Linnaea borealis is the provincial flower of Småland, the home province of Linnaeus (and where my Swedish roots were born). |
| Inner sinkholes Holes within me widen; synapses of raw nerves now rot. What was certain land dissolves to quicksand. What was once transparent now is not. Opaque senses invade my being; thoughts evade, just mere abstractions. Poorly poured concrete crumbles; my home, a bed of soil and weeds, awaits me. Mere blush remains where pastel landscapes lost their color. In this place of near horizons, I celebrate each emptiness, hoping you will deign to fill it. © Kåre Enga (20.abril.2017) [174.40] Well... not quite sure where this is going! But... by posting I can edit at will. 80.765 |
| Coming of age in Porto So unassuming along the Douro: the greenness of our blooms, how budbreak broke the vintage that year a hailstorm hit, the year our vines were shorn. No fruit borne. This year our green berries blacken with age, beg to be plucked, pressed with the best, fortified in barrels. After angels partake of their share, bottle us up! Send us abroad! Give us a chance to toast your joy. © Kåre Enga (20.april.2017) [174.39] Grape vineyards of the Douro valley, east of Porto. Port wine. Dew Drop Inn #21 ... coming of age. Angel's share = what evaporates from barrels. |
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