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 |
Lisbon, April 25th Back then red carnations stuffed rifles staunched wounds, carnelian blood not shed. Today, we march; we show our many colors. Our hope blooms forever carnation red. Kåre Enga (18.abril.2017) [38] Anniversary of the Carnation Revolution, Portugal, April 25, 1974. Dew Drop Inn prompt: holiday. |
Middle of nowhere Don't "something" me. I want names, details, a target to shoot at, What gives me life, not Dead things. Don't "somewhere" me. Make it here; make it now! Make it there... Even later is better than never. Something, somewhere gives me nothing, leaves me in the middle of nowhere. © Kåre Enga (18.april.2017) [174.37] |
Green ink I write in Spring's green ink as tulips bloom and lilacs burst. I'm dying. Today, I draw your heart in autumn-red. I'm taking it with me, sorry. I leave you January's sparkle and July's glory and all that's warmed the winters within me. © Kåre Enga (18.april.2017) [174.36] |
Billings and the colors of abstraction 1. Navy-blue Billings: More than just beige, bland and boring, this Billings diner smells of sandalwood, while orchids in a bowl gather dust. Philosophy, mathematical ethics, statistical tragedy, capitalistic trinitarian engineers... WTF... who cares! Joy's a navy blue polka-dot tablecloth with a chalkboard showing today's special on sweet rolls... that wonderful taste of cardamom on the tongue. 2. Dusty-rose philosophy: Neither grey nor pink nor warm nor rosy they meet to mumble the about slippery slopes of string theory, the overripe theologies of cerulean moons, the smell of oil fragrant as the two brawny guards, their jailers and protection from the others, speak about the real world, one they will never understand. 2. Sky-blue ethics: Pie in the sky-blue-sky, we whistle, bent over to smell the solid chocolate balls, the burnt-sienna bunnies. Do we dare look too close, smell too hard, maybe take a lick then rewrap and put them back... before we decide? Pollen like arsenic is never mentioned among ingredients. But teaching ethics has taught us to pay and take some home, feed them to the kids then watch... expectantly. 3. Purple paisley mathematics: Purple sweetness of -8, muddy numbers dancing to division, a 4th grade beat. Rhomboids defining the rotting symbol of death: the mathematical paisley patterns of Fibonacci. Numbers, magenta manifestations of nil, the negative meaning of 4 in Chinese. We squint our eyes at the blackboard, try to remember our subtraction tables. 4. Emerald statistics: Onion rings bring tears of joy from emerald eyes. Lists of numbers, stats swirling before our visions of frustration. We whisper, it can't be that hard, not as hard as this table! But it was, is and will be as hard as unripe avocados. One cannot deny that tan isn't brown, we lament, that it's much more fun to visit a bar or brothel in Butte with a bunch of drunks than sit here with unripened onions. Green shoots whisper our names, our numbers; straight lines of onions, burly garlic, push up theses sown in hard clay. Their conclusions ring true: "it's all lies". 5. Topaz tragedy: A bloody collar soaks in soft water, smelling of sweat and soap. The greatness of sky blue faded to puce. The greatness of this tragedy. Only a sack of blue topaz remains. 6. Copper-colored capitalists: Microscopic coffin-shaped tins overflow with tobacco, their chestnut colored spit adorning velveteen chickens. Nothing can be smelled here where ash fills the air. No need to yell... nothing lives. Nothing of value remains. 7. Vermilion trinitarians: Vestments ooze with the scent of gardenias. We look down parallel aisles at lavender poles festooned with rosemary. We blot out thoughts of the oily patch after the crash and screams. Now hymns sung in three parts soften the blows of burial. 8. Indigo engineering: At tea (lukewarm will do), they wear their cadet blue uniforms, discuss the stability of tetrahedrons, even at the atomic level. They ponder small things; leery of anything too hot or too cold. They live in an uncertain world that upsets rationality. Anything that whistles like a flute, they fear. © Kåre Enga (16.april.2017) [174.35] for Dew Drop Inn #16 Prompts: 1. Billings: polka-dot, bowl, orchid, cardamom, chalk, joy, sandalwood; 2. Philosophy: brawny, string, cerulean, overripe, slippery, mumble, oil; 3. Ethics: bent, ball, burnt sienna, chocolate, solid, whistle, pollen; 4. Mathematics: scant sight, rhomboid, magenta, sweet, muddy, beat sound, rot smell; 5. Statistics: burly, ring, tan, green [unripe], hard, whisper, onion; 6. Topaz tragedy: great, collar, sky-blue, bloody, water, soft, soap; 7. Copper-colored capitalists: microscopic, coffin, chestnut color, chicken, velvet, yell, ash-smell; 8. Vermilion trinitarians: pole, parallel, lavender, rosemary, oily, screech, gardenia; 9. Indigo engineering: atomic, tetrahedron, cadet blue, tea, lukewarm, flute, fear. 80,719 |
Navy blues The dawn of navy days began on Monday, repeated itself each Monday, e.v.e.r.y Monday. Today was sunny, calm and Sunday. It turquoised at noon, faded to indigo by evening, lights out by the time skies darkened to a midnight blue lament. —You won't shut up, will you? Nothing quite like a manic moment to interrupt the descent into indigo wastelands of dreams or horrors lurking in purple-royale nightmares. Taps sang us to sleep while blue bots buzzing kept us awake, the bewitching hours lit by neon floodlights... blue neon, always blue. At dawn the sky bloomed a promising cornflower, but by the time we were ready to work, one coffee down and twenty more to go, everything had darkened to a navy haze. Only 6 more daze to go. We lifted our cups, drowned our sorrows, sang the blues. At the corner of cerulean noons crossroads of those bright-blue moons bluebells ring and we all sing yes we sing, while bluebells ring the Monday navy blues. those navy blues. © Kåre Enga [174.34] (14.april.2017) Dew Drop Inn #17 prompt was Manic/Blue Monday 80.716 |
What one-hundred dollars buys One red One-hundred dollar bill: enough to buy beef noodles, two oven-baked pepper cakes, a train ride to somewhere near. Money helps—even here; but, where smiles reign, a handshake, a friendly face, true coins-of-the-realm. Yet, the face of Sun Yat-sen, "The Chapter of Great Harmony", Confucius and a mei flower open keys to night markets. Or parks where horny people prowl, eyes diverted or boldly met to welcome prospective surcease from their loneliness. Red flashes from receding cars, a building's ruby neon sign; red bills won't buy sex. Kisses yes. No one charges for blow jobs. © Kåre Enga (15.april.2017) [174.33] Notes: Dew Drop Inn #15. Prompt was 'money'. 100 NT$ (red, the basic bill used in Taiwan) = ~ $3.10. |
Menders Their DNA betrays them. Born with a giggle, a smile, warm eyes they thrive. Since life became more than rocks, bark or brains, they connected us beings into communities that vibrated with music shared from hymns within. But what was wrought soon lay like writhing snakes rent into us-es and thems: the "isms" of color, of gender, of height, wealth, of knowledge, spasming our peace. They still smile as they sew with threads, giggle while they weave and mend, warm eyes shining with kindness. Since the Dawn of Time they've rebuilt bridges to span the "isms" that chasm between us. © Kåre Enga [174.32] (14.abril.2017) |
Thimbleful She calls to hear his voice two thousand smiles away beyond time zones, moonscapes, mountains; yet, with whom to share her joy? No one. She speaks rapidly pours two gallons of sweet lies, a droplet of pent up grief, ten spoons of honey into a cup for one. She drinks, inhales his words, vows to always hold on to his laughter, remembers when hanging up to cap her thimble of joy. © Kåre Enga [174.31] (13.abril.2017) |
Hidden "Once I had a secret love..." sing it, Doris Day! Read like an open book worn on my vested chest. "Do not look", I say. Sad jest. There is no love in living, not even hate. Yet, Death, the Messenger of Joy, must wait. I give. I take. I give again. So not one of those Three Wise Men. Read my pages torn and ragged: no knights, no princes, no green dragon. Look in my eyes, just me looking sad I hide my joy. No, I'm not mad. What do you want? What can I give? Says not-even-one-of-those Wise Men. © Kåre Enga [174.30] (13.April.2017) |
Peevish I pet my peeves... one at a time. Some purr like a kitty that uses its claws. Some dogs wag tails until they bite. I try to be kind and stay away from birds (to protect my eyes). I don't know where this is going... I have many peeves I try to pet. Many peeves that make me sweat. Do not pet the sweaty ones. they told me. Well... I don't listen. Ah... to be never offended, to never be angry. I'll get there someday... when I'm dead. © Kåre Enga [174.29] 80.691 |