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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 |
| A Daily Disruption Sun shines though yonder window box. I sit here attached to chatting socks. Both demand my attention. Meow. And then there's that. From 5 in the morning, every hour, what's with this cat? (He loves to be scratched.) A gentle breeze wafts though the room as I begin to type my daily doom... then Bang. I live in a place with paper walls, where friendly ghosts sip oolong tea... most quietly... while noisy people pace the halls. (We greet each other out of desperation.) Now my fingers clack against the keys: bang meow bang meow bang meow ... Drip....... Drip....... Drip....... (When will they ever get that eff-in' faucet fixed.) KE [177.25] (9.abril.2020) |
| Come sashay down Bahia's streets dada DAA dada DAA We play the agogô. dada DAA dada DAA Two notes: one high, one low. dada DAA dada DAA Our bodies squeezed together, ache a third, to sing, to sigh, to moan, to make our music sweeter. We move as one with syncopation, to repeated clacks of sticks and drums. We groove moist lips and ample hips and begin to thrum DAA dadaduh DAA dadaduh DAA ... and sashay down Bahia's streets DAA dadaduh DAA dadaduh DAA ... to the samba beat. Kåre Enga [177.23] (8.abril.2020) Notes: Agogô: The agogô bell is a fairly old instrument that originated in Africa and it’s one that produces an extremely high note. The instrument is comprised of anywhere between two and four conical shaped or truncated cones that are all linked together by a U-shaped piece of metal. The cones on an agogô bell are sized differently, and the sound that the instrument produces will depend on which cone is hit. You can hear the agogô bell in some traditional African Yoruba music. |
104,042 views "O my Lord! Make Thy beauty to be my food, and Thy presence my drink, and Thy pleasure my hope, and praise of Thee my action ... " Bahá’u’lláh I thought about using the first lines of this prayer to narrow the prompt since "food" was too broad. Make Thy beauty to be my food In these times of trouble, cupboards bare, as ugliness rules a wanting world, make Thy beauty to be my food. When thirsty for humanity's hug, when kindness seems to have disappeared, make Thy presence my drink, that I may do what's best for others always doing what's right for myself; make Thy pleasure my hope, When anger rises within my heart and words keep me from my earthly tasks, make praise of Thee my action. KE [177.23] (7.abril.2020) |
| Our Beloved Country we suffer the old the young those who have hurt others their wounded victims when will we forgive their sins our sins how soon will what drives us apart bring us together in the end the father of the murdered son the father of the killer meet in grief if they can forgive ... when will we ask for forgiveness when will we embrace KE [177.21] (6.april.2020) "Cry, The Beloved Country" by Alan Paton. 104,040 |
| This Death of Dreams For Mark and Leslie The letter sits where she left it. One word, just one word screaming in red: INFERTILE She will never look at it again. She strokes the fur purring at her side and wonders how and why. How will she tell him about this death of dreams, he who always wanted one of each or two ... it never mattered. Will he move on to another now? Will her trembling body remain untouched. He knows his boys and girls can swim. He's launched his million mini-me's time and time again. But that letter sitting on her desk ... one word makes his rugged features cry. He tries to imagine a future of nephews and nieces, piles of dog and cat fur. He goes to hold her trembles in his arms. He vows to never let go. KE [177.19] (4.april.2020) |
| Bob Your face stares out from my sister's yearbook: soft eyes, brown hair, a steady look, the way we'll always remember you, fifty years after you crashed and died. I lied to myself that you were beyond me, that time would free me from your grasp. I gasped when I met you thirty years later, blond haired, a skater, not recognizing me, mesmerizing me still. I'm thrilled to have barely known you twice, like snow and ice that melts when touched. If only I could have touched your face. KE [177.18] (3.april.2020) |
| Oval We went round and round never crossing the street on a bike or a tricycle we rode, no one to greet that we didn't already know. Shaped like a kidney bean, we knew who lived where. And where the sidewalk buckled we walked with care through puddles or snow. It was our kingdom's boundaries: hopscotch chalked, grass freshly mown, where under trees we talked about crayons, said hello to Queenie, Judy's dog, her older sisters, her working parents, all the missus and misters and the occasional crow ... ... who knew where we lived. © Kåre Enga [177.16] (2.april.2020) 104.021 Note: xaxae, xbxbe, xcxce,xdxde. Written for the April 2nd Dew Drop Inn prompt: draw (in words) a map of where you live now or lived as a child. |
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