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 |
This life Woven from threads of unraveled hand-me-downs: my father's smile, my mother's will; this became my tapestry of weep and frolic. Dirtied in the backyard garden, washed and pressed to go to school, learning that my new clothes mattered more than what I wore inside, my tapestry turned outside in. And so I wore it many years, the warp turned upside down, until the weft demanded justice, that smiles replace my frowns. I took it off to turn it inside in. Now worn until bare threads are noticed, broken strands that never mend, still held together by a will that will not quit... not quite the end of giving warmth to strong-willed bones, my smile a comfort to my friends. © Kåre Enga [174.15] (5.april.2017) Dew Drop Inn prompt #5: unfinished 80,616 |
[untitled political limerick] When Oligarchs offered gold buckets, Don slathered orange hair-gel and plucked it. As Congress dithered and Media blithered, America cried out, "MOTHER-f***-IT!" © Kåre Enga [174.15] (5.апрель.2017) |
Father Coleus prays. Mother Rosa listens. love-in-a-mist © Kåre Enga [174.14] (4.abril.2017) 80.614 |
Lucy I was born into a land of light embraced by the Creator of Love itself buoyed by an ocean of luminescence. But I heard your cries, saw your struggles, how clouds of ignorance hid you from our light, how the depths of darkness bound you. I gave you a lantern and a candle to guide you, hung a fruit of enlightenment I had fashioned, its ripe bounty dangling from a bough before you. I was warned but overcame my fear. I offered you glory and desire of knowledge. I was banished; my light extinguished. Once I went by another name. But you can call me Lucy. © Kåre Enga [174.13] (4.abril.2017) Earlier version: Lucy I was born into a land of light embraced by the creator of Love itself buoyed by an ocean of luminescence. But I heard your cries, saw your struggles, how the clouds of ignorance hid our light, how the depths of darkness bound you. I gave you a lantern and a candle to guide you, hung a fruit of enlightenment I had fashioned, its ripe bounty dangling from a bough before you. I was warned but I had overcome my fear. I offered you glory and desire of knowledge. I was banished; my light was extinguished. Once I went by another name. But you can call me Lucy. © Kåre Enga [174.13] (4.abril.2017) |
Wheel He told her they should tumble, that what goes around—would not become a round, that he'd return by tulip time. That Tuesday he left town? She should've tacked his treads. © Kåre Enga [174.12] (4.avril.2017) Note prompt from Dew Drop Inn: technology 80.607 |
I gaze at you, caressed by a snowflake this shaggy-dog-day. Stay. Stay. © Kåre Enga (3.April.2017) [174.10] Winter's afterthought: God's snot... and a laughter of daffodils. © Kåre Enga (3.Apri.2017) [174.11] |
Small changes made 3.April. Nick doesn't like fish! "Nick Neverhome (Dew Drop Inn Day 2)" Nick Neverhome for Nicholas Le Tang You squirm, gold-like in the sun, quicksilver at night; I order a fish taco, offer you a bite; you snigger. What now niggles at my neck if not the carp and cavil of our daily quibble over why you aren't 'here' and why I'm never 'all there'. One glance and off you go, 'going to pot', a murky tale of wheel-thrown-clay and hand drawn scribbles, glazed and ready to oven-bake. Like lemon cilantro carp, eyes-up on a gilded plate, silver waiting on either side. © Kåre Enga [174.8] (2.abril.2017 Small changes from what I first posted less than an hour before, kept here, just in case: Nick Neverhome for Nicholas Le Tang You squirm, gold like the sun, silver like night; you bite into your fish taco, smirk at me. What now niggles at my neck if not the carp and cavil of our daily quibble over why you aren't 'here' and why I'm never 'there'. One glance and off you go 'going to pot', a murky tale of wheel-thrown-clay and hand drawn scribbles, glazed and ready to oven-bake. Like lemon cilantro carp, eyes-up on a golden plate, silver waiting on either side. © Kåre Enga [174.8] (2.abril.2017) Prompt: carp, the fish... or maybe the verb? And my friend Nick... who is never found at home. 80.598 |
Mouldering Anger floats on oceans of fear, the welling crests, the spray of outbursts, the untruthfulness of calm As once firm boundaries of land and sea erode, the being of my being decomposed, my flesh mutilated. Anger fuels this loss of freedom, the horror of disconnectedness, the numbing of my senses; worse, the ruination of my sense of Self. What orange-red coating stains my aging House: once diamond-hard, now rotting with rust. © Kåre Enga [174.7] (1.avril.2017] Version from earlier today: Mouldering Anger floats on a ocean of fear, the welling crests, the spray of outbursts, the untruthfulness of calm. As once firm boundaries of land and sea erode, the being of my being decomposed, my flesh mutilated. Anger fuels this loss of freedom, the horror of disconnectedness, the numbing of my senses; worse, the ruination of my sense of Self. What orange-red coating stains my aging House, this once diamond-hard body, rotting with rust. © Kåre Enga [174.7] (1.avril.2017] 80.590 |
Lesser Prophet Who few will remember my visions? obliterate me by time and ennui, like Obadiah barely notice my voice, my solitary chapter, my 21 verses? © Kåre Enga [174.6] (1.April.2017) |