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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 |
 Cow's-eye Did I say something wrong. Did I do something wrong. It didn't matter; I was wrong and your anger lashed out. You refused to speak to me, and your punishment was cruel. Your heart's difference froze me, left me speechless. I couldn't move. Now you stare through me, stone-faced, your lack-of-innocence interrupted, your bow cocked, me acquiescent to be dissected by your arrow. © Kåre Enga (15.juin.2017) [136] /30:14.1/ Note: about the title... I could've used "Bull's-eye" and still might, but I wanted something a bit more unusual. It isn't meant to be pejorative... and it concerns me that it might be taken that way, especially since we live in uber-sensitive times where everything said is suspect and giving a negative meaning. Think "big beautiful cow's eyes..." |
| Flower, feather, flame and flood I take a clod of earth, water it and place it where a sunny breeze will coax out new leaves. I wave a feather gifted by a bird that soared above the clouds where sunshine heats the earth. I light flames that endure bellows of wind and rain and place it where a planted seed now bursts. I let the fluids of life surround me, protecting me from fire and cleansing me of dirt. Flowers consume the flood that quenched the flames and calmed the breezes that had set my world ablaze. © Kåre Enga (13.juin.2017) [135] /30:13.1/  |
The Moon must be fed Caught in a web of filigreed desire, the husk of an airplane, suspended in time, waits for the ghost of the Moon to wax when the ripened feast will be consumed, leaving only an empty hull to rust among the myths of long-lost flights that never will be found. No one ever questions the Moon. The Moon now full, isn't talking. © Kåre Enga (13.junio.2017) [174.134] /30:13.2 /  |
 O sunlit child of darkened skies, how you try to swing above the gloom! Break loose your bonds and learn to fly or seek your doom. Old ropes won't hold. They fray, and severed won't hold you fast. I do not lie! Let go and join the clouds forever or quickly die. O sunlit child of gloomy skies Beyond the storms lie sunny climes. Break loose from ropes and learn to fly o'er better times. © Kåre Enga (12.giugno.2017) [174.133] /30:12.2/ |
| Romeo's dilemma What light through yonder keyhole breaks. 'Tis dawn or lamp that lit must mean— my restless love's awake! Thy door stands shut. I'll never know unless I find the key—or dare— to peek through yonder hole.  © Kåre Enga (12.giugno.2017) [174.132] /30:12.1/ |
 "My poodle made me drop my paper in a puddle" That's what I told them. That's not what happened. I love rain. I love puddles. As a small child I jumped into every one I could find. Slushy in winter or frog-filled in Spring. Didn't matter. I jumped. They splashed. I got yelled at... every time. But not yesterday. I was wearing my new tennies and a good pair of jeans. I was on my way to school with Puddles (that's my puppy; she always follows me as far as I let her). It had rained overnight and the streets were puddle-luscious. I was careful. I really was. I skipped around them, jumped over them. No problemo. I was in a good mood as I came to the corner of Cameron and Colorado. There was a small puddle. I looked both ways and jumped. And... that's when it got weird. I was mid-air when a hand reached up and grabbed me, pulled me into ocean depths until I felt like I was drowning. Fish were ogling me and a frog mouthed my name and then... then a merman grabbed me and dragged me into his cave. He served me sushi and lukewarm tea while he lectured about global warming... as if I cared. "You'd better", he warned me. Then... I dunno... I came to, completely soaked, spitting out water as Puddles barked at... nothing. There was nothing in the 2" deep puddle. Mrs. Janicki came by, asked if I was okay and helped me up. I thanked her then told Puddles to go home in spite of her whining. I grabbed my book-bag. It was soaked too. At school, my English teacher, Miss Mueller, was not amused with my soggy essay on local myths. So I told her, "My poodle made me drop my paper in a puddle." I mean... "I was grabbed and almost drowned by a mermen" just didn't sound right. So I blamed Puddles. She won't mind. © Kåre Enga (11.juni.2017) [174.131] /30:11.1/ 81.196 |
prompt:  What she remembers before the lamp gutters out I do not remember the year only that it was winter and the unpaved streets were empty although the night was still young and a crescent moon lit the way of the wary windows dark doors shut street lamps guttering out. Weary, I watched a moonlit man in a top hat walking towards me wandering down the stone-clad sidewalk as if he hadn't a worry as the clock struck the hour and steam rose from the city to block out the moon, bare tree limbs reaching out as if to snatch it. They say that no one screams before Jack rips out your throat. I would know. That much I do remember... Steam rises to gag winter's moon before it gasps and breaks this silence. K Enga (10.june.2017) [174.130] /30:10.2/ Note: a ramble, could become a prose or prose poem... maybe, or a hybrid form, similar to a haibun. Too soon to edit properly, IMHO. 81.185 |
| Lime Ricky Ricky wanted to climb back into the lime soda, its green placenta abandoned, its womb empty. Ejected after its fizz popped and its water broke-- covering everything in reach with limey froth-- Ricky groped around, gasping for breath. He was a land animal now, no longer a swimmer embraced by lime-green jism. He looked around. There was no glass of rum waiting for a jinn, a squirt of citrus, an orphaned man. He jumped, as if he could squeeze back into the bottle, hanging on as I took his picture. But as we all know, once birthed, we can never re-enter the womb. K Enga (10.junio.2017) [174.129] /30:10.1/  |
| Kansas Spring of 2257 Ride my boots across tilled flats, mud clinging to my soles, your soul free to hold Spring's reins and guide my existence as storm clouds scatter in the distance, boot-prints the only sign that we have passed through here, water gathering in indentations, impressions we leave where e'er we pass. K Enga (10.juin.2017) [174.128] /30:9.1/ prompt:  note: title is provisional. |
| Knock on wood I am the face that waits for fairies, the door you cannot see nor squeeze through. Wait on a toadstool until a druid passes by and deigns to help you. Here we practice calm and peace. Here we show the utmost patience, a virtue should you wish to see us. So sit and rest then dream and wait. K Enga (8.juni.2017) [174.127] /30:8.1/ prompt:  81.169 |
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