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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 |
| Cherokee County Cemetery, 2004 Aguyuh-carved Pillars rest among Red-ferns where double-weave Baskets sieve Thoughts and Moon hushes Sun. Sounds silence Touch before Blindness and Bluets bring me to my Knees as Henbit violets cool Mornings before Letting-go when Evening's Glory unbinds us and Orange lichens Loose-rocks. © Kåre Enga (12.abril.2017) [174.28] |
| Fortune cookies Change your spots and bury old thoughts. Renew, improve or prepare for ruination. Snatch a new body! Start a new job! Mutate into greatness! Avoid stagnation. © Kåre Enga [174.27] (11.April.2017) Prompt: mutation. I have to come up with a short tight poem by Monday the 17th... so this may seem silly but it's all I got! 80.681 |
| Whitewashed Teach a lesson to that Chink, a lesson to those Spics; we're no longer greasy Dagos, no longer dirty Micks. It's nicer to be White. So nice to be white. ... unless you're a Kike... A FILTHY CHRIST-KILLING KIKE! So... be washed by the Blood, washed till you're cleansed Like Fruit of the Womb, laundered crosses on your chest. It's better to be White, best to be Right, bleached, fresh-smelling white, pure alabaster tight. © Kåre Enga [174.26] (10.april.2017) In response to: "Bent to the Earth" by Blas Manuel de Luna about brutality towards migrant and immigrants; today's incident where a passenger was dragged off a United flight, traumatizing many; the meanness of people here in Montana towards refugees; the "passing" of ethnic Americans of my childhood into the blinding light of Whiteness. |
| Smoke It always begins with fire: a controlled burn, a lightning strike, one lit cigarette; then spreads, fueled by dry tinder, embers lifting, creating its own wind. Skies redden at sunset; the horizon blurs; then the pall that moonlight can't pierce, that the dawn merely lightens to a brighter shade of grey. The tongue tastes like ash; the nostrils smell it; the throat chokes... then gasps. And the calm, the calm of it all, the silence of ashflakes falling like snow before one final thought, will I ever be able to breathe again. © Kåre Enga [174.25] (9.april.2017) 80.658 |
| Hosted by the Ghost sing it Write about a ghost a holy host no DNA of Jesus in that Holy Host. Write some ghastly verses disappear like curses banished by a ghost, that Holy Ghost. Share them with Our Father, share them with His Son, let them pass right through you like a friendly ghost. Speak with truthful tongue; Let Their will be done; embrace your inner spirit, that Holy Ghost. © Kåre Enga [174.23] (8.april.2017) Earlier version: Hosted by the Ghost sing it Write about a ghost a holy host no DNA of Jesus in that Holy Host. Write some ghostly verses disappear like curses banished by the ghost, that Holy Ghost. Share them with your Father, share them with His Son, let them pass right through you like a friendly ghost. Speak with truthful tongue; Let Their will be done; embrace your inner spirit, that Holy Ghost. © Kåre Enga [174.23] (8.april.2017) 80.645 Dew Drop Inn prompt was ghost/ghostly (blinded by the light... sing it) |
| Unknown script What script wrote itself across this asphalt; what message can be discerned from scribbles? We throw the stones to read the future. We're left with bones now rid of flesh. Do we press our thoughts between dead papers or give them voice? What poetry expressed, recited when the road slid side to side, what verses voiced as Death embraced what slid from Life. How can I read these bones, bring what is hidden to light? © Kåre Enga [174.21] (7.april.2017) Written at UM at Kwasny/Bitsui reading. |
| Note that this poem uses present tense as if written in 1850. Daylight robbery In Donegal—in Dingle in t' jingle—of t' keys of t' jails—when t' English tax t' Irish—who can't see out small windows—sooty walls of cold damp stone—past t' reeds at crosses—of their children newly planted—sprung like weeds from fevers—from starvation while t' nobles—spread their ass's on benches—bought with taxes on each window—filled with glass, while t' Irish—robbed of sunlight in t' darkness—bow with beads. For tis legal—if not moral that t' wealthy—hide dark deeds. In Ireland—on yr journeys heed t' wailing—if you please. In Limerick—in Listowel light a candle—pray on knees. © Kåre Enga [174.22] (8.april.2017) Dew Drop Inn prompt was "something illegal" but I chose to think of what was legal but not moral. Around 1690, windows were taxed. This poem came about after a talk with my friend Michele Mulligan. |
| Colorshift Born yellow, I darkened to a luscious shade of olive, took dry soil and sucked up each drop of water. My shriveled torso plumped out. I reached toward sunrays, spread out my arms, but my ancient roots stunted my growth. Without wings or height, I'll never fly like Icarus before the fall... or be flattened after. Hug me, hoard each squeezed out drop. In me, preserve your herbs and spices. Let me color the palate of life's plate, my youthful yellow, my ancient olive, shifting with the light. © Kåre Enga [174.20] (7.april.2017) At Kwasny/Bitsui reading, UM. |
| Not one iota He won't pull off the mask he's worn since childhood, the mist and mirrors mere camouflage, for his childish fits, his golfing outfits. He won't reveal the layers behind his lies. They fit like corsets, dark, constraining; he speaks in monosyllabic voice, a juvie choice that never grew like the belt around his belly. Button his lips, cross his tees, un-gag his Xes! Let loose the asses from his tottering cart! Not one dot, one jot, not one iota... dare to masquerade as his tiny heart. © Kåre Enga [174.18] (6.avril.2017) Dew Drop Inn Day #7: "tiny" |
| Paranoia rising wetlands forgive winter, praise pools of snow that fed it out of muck new shoots of onions sprouts rising towards sun ignore thunderclouds that gather what will be will be whispers across green rows we are onions, mere bulbs, stuck in mud until we're plucked until then—peace among us: the shallots, garlic, leeks, we all get along but the lightning slashes beware, beware, they are out to get you but we are onions—we cannot flee! then you are doomed booms the thunder come the hail, come the flood Before the storm, the onions nod: garlic, onion, carrot, peas, Dear God, protect the least of these © Kåre Enga (5.april.2017) [174.17] Earlier version: Paranoia rising wetlands forgive winter, praise the pools of snow that fed it out of the muck new shoots of onions sprouts rising towards sun ignore thunderclouds gathering what will be will be whispers across green rows we are onions, mere bulbs, stuck in mud until we're needed until then—peace among us: the shallots, garlic, leeks we all get along but the lightning slashes beware, beware, they are out to get you but we are onions—we cannot flee! then you are doomed booms the thunder come the hail, come the flood The onions nod before the storm: garlic, onion, carrot, peas, Dear God, protect the least of these © Kåre Enga (5.april.2017) [174.17] I had a waking-nightmare of paranoia, quite aware no-one and nothing was out to get me. I was also thinking of onions... and the mucklands near where I grew up. |
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