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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 |
| Moody Tuesday... afternoon? O Cold White Rain that blocks these mountains from our sight— was April a mere illusion. © Kåre Enga [176.34] (9.april.2019) For the Dew Drop Inn prompt: water. 101.029 |
| In a world where Aquarius becomes Aquaman and Pisces becomes Pikeface: Fight of the Zodiacs "Aquaman begged to blow the world away if Pikeface wouldn't give him a blow-job. But... jaundiced Pikey... prayed to the Heavens and gave him a golden shower instead. The Greeks danced in the vernal rain." That would be my essay for the End Times of Marvel. But it wouldn't be poetry. There once was fish-face named Pike-guard who dared the Aquarian blowhard to sit for a shower for only an hour but piss isn't gold in a junkyard. So. much. for. that. Pikey: "rain, rain, come out to play." Aquaman: "stop pissing on me!" This dispute went on for some time. It became know as the Age of Aquarius. A windy wet Age it was! So juvenile... But boys grow up, leave behind their toys. And no one dared mention any of this at their wedding. © Kåre Enga [176.33] (9.april.2019) |
| Two versions (different line breaks); could use a new title. In the market of life A. My heart leaps exposed, protected only by a smile and a cage of bone. This is what you see. This is what you want to see. I hold up the mirrored shard. Thin slices of glass and silver, a weapon of hide and seek. I hide. You seek. In the market of life are you a buyer? Know this: I am never on sale. © Kåre Enga [176.30] (8.aprille.2019) B. Different line breaks: My heart leaps exposed, protected only by a smile and a cage of bone. This is what you see. This is what you want to see. I hold up the mirrored shard. Thin slices of glass and silver, a weapon of hide and seek. I hide. You seek. In the market of life are you a buyer? Know this: I am never on sale. 101.002 |
| Celestial bodies Hold on to me like a kite; don't let me go. Let us be like Pluto and Charon facing each other, caught in a tidal embrace, winking in and out of other's definitions but never ours. Don't redefine me. Wrap around my celestial body. Know our orbit's forever ours. © Kåre Enga [176.29] (7.abril.2019) Maybe I should dedicate this to Barbara Marie Kerley who died the day I wrote this. I met Barbara here at WDC. On facebook, I posted a video of her singing "I've got you babe' with Kerry. It does seem to apply... 100.909 |
| Needs work, but do I care? It's metrical: 8.6.8.6.8.6.8.6...6 with an annoying rhythm and regrettable rhymes. I already see some editing... maybe "hard tack" for "fried fish". Anyhoo... thankfully tomorrow's poem is short and sweet and already written. There must be something better to do... There's nothing that's more horrible than going on a hike as if this climb's equatable to flying frickin' kites, as if fried fish is edible for more than just one bite. I'd rather be invisible than stay at home tonight, said no one who's not tight So off we go to bag a bull and pant to unknown heights lest friends should think us scarable and frighten us with tripe for all this crap is doable for all of us ain't right. And so we trod to fetch a fool, foot sore and such a sight with only thoughts unprintable: f**k off now, take a hike. © Kåre Enga [176.28] (6.april.2019) 100.901 |
| The chartreuse swamps of home Zoom past a vast green expanse sweeping between horizons: islands of jade colored sticks, puddles of seafoam, emerald quagmire and quicksand oozing in between arranged like a still-life under a gloomy sage bowl. It could be Kansas, except for the water; its emptiness will remind you of bears in Belarus— but this isn't Earth— and you're not human— anymore. The moaning wind never stops; yet, you only feel it on slick skin. The smell of rot surrounds you but you can't tell without a nose. Your friends can't see you; no one has eyes. Once you had a thousand ears; now you hear nothing. Wiggle roots where once you had feet. Let your blueblood rise to stretch out what once were your arms. Mouth at a vermillion star: PRY OPEN OUR BUDS and wait for the gloom to part. Far from the chartreuse swamps of home you bloom © Kåre Enga [176.25.gz] (6.abril.2019) Written sitting in the tub. The prompt was "bloom". 100.891 |
| Storms pass over me Cold descent of water, a drizzle, hardly a rain but something liquid and flowing Like a cascade of clouds floating over high mountains stopping to greet me on their way Now gifting a few drops to moisten parched lips, as if quenching my nightmares brings forth dreams © Kåre Enga [176.24] (5.avril.2019) |
| Iris She snugged white blankets around her, glad to snooze after too much fun between sunsets and fawning sun. She'd been a fragrant flirt in her youth, as enticing as a root-beer float some said. She'd flutter her bronze and copper petals. Only this frigid cold provided respite. She'd always needed months to recover. Each thaw tried to wake her; did she dare? Not yet. She returned to restless visions of last year's neighbors; wondering, would new ones move in come Spring? She'd have to wait through freeze and thaw till bright beams burned through drifting dreams. Then, stretching her long green arms, she'd bloom. © Kåre Enga [176.20] (4.april.2019) From the Dew Drop Inn prompt: fitful sleep. Note: there are various root-beer scented iris (a memory of my childhood), Inca Chief among them. 100.811 |
| Time to move on And this is where you were born, a place of deep snows and deeper secrets, a cocoon that guarded your trust until squeezed out leaving only a husk. And this is the place you fled to wide open grasslands and welcoming arms where sunshine cleansed dark corners of webs, those places you tried to keep to yourself. And then you left... returned to the confines of childhood closets, stuck in an attic of old memories and ghosts the past a trap at every footfall a place where traumas never gave up Once more you fled to a place of odd melodies, old hills that sang with a twang and the soft mutter of crayfish, the flutter of scissor tailed flycatchers catching your eye And now you live in a place where grizzlies yodel between mountains and snow melts to impregnate a river each spring where winter's but a ghastly pall where after the scorch of summer smoke chokes lungs come fall. And you dream of a place with open prairie and open hearts where green hurts the eyes where blackbirds squawk and elderberries ripen in ditches, where bells ring out and choirs sing in four part harmony beckoning you home. Know that you know what place you need to be. Know that here isn't that place. It's time to move on. © Kåre Enga [176.19] (3.avril.2019) For the Dew Drop Inn prompt: place. |
| Singing to the crayfish crick crick crick where shallow waters flow no lust for Muse's melody just a croak or two but not too low crick crick crick not creek where fish fry hide in shadows or willows wallow just crick crick crick annoying sleepless crayfish all night long © Kåre Enga [176.17] (2.april.2019) For the prompt "birdsong" from Dew Drop Inn. 100.743 |
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