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Rated: 13+ · Book · Personal · #982524
Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation.
*Delight*          *Smirk*          *Cool*

L'aura del campo


'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣


Higgins Street Bridge, April 25th  2009, Missoula, Montana


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*Flower2*V*Flower2* COMMENTS!

On a practical note, in answer to your questions:

Gifts from NOVAcatmando kiyasama alfred booth, wanbli ska ransomme Iowegian Skye

Merit Badge in Reviewing
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For your support and suggestions on my haiku "Lone Poinsettia" which took second place in the contest and will be published.  Thanks for helping make it a winning poem! Merit Badge in Nano Winner
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CONGRATULATIONS on your achievement! *^*Bigsmile*^* Merit Badge in Reviewing
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For help finding a title for my first chapbook.  We're not there yet, but your ideas are always interesting.
Merit Badge in Funny
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Merit Badge in Friendship
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Thanks for being my friend.

Hugz! 

grannym Merit Badge in Appreciation
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For brightening my day with your delightful offerings ~ Thank you so much! *^*Heart*^*


IN MEMORIUM

VerySara

passed away November 12, 2005

Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
More suggested links:

Visitor's Center of Woolaroc in Oklahoma, Osage Nation. Tribute to Native America.
These pictures rotate.



 Kåre *Leaf5* Enga
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
The Fish
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June 3, 2017 at 2:31pm
June 3, 2017 at 2:31pm
#912318
Mistress of the seven wounds

Bleached seaweed rises at noon,
cleansed by tides and both hidden
moons that caress light's ripples
radiating from Axixa's
arousal as long wet strands
brush six nipples she offers
to this ocean she suckles.

Bring your bruises and open
cuts as soft hands channel cool
water's healing touch; feel safe;
you have your life to regain.

At Death's door, return at night
to rest in Axixa's arms
as she removes this world's pain,
weaving your shroud from moonlight.

K Enga (3.juin.2017) [174.116] /Day2.2/

For "Invalid Item

June 2, 2017 at 4:10pm
June 2, 2017 at 4:10pm
#912256
Light on tomes

We search the mundane for what we want
study the tomes of a million thoughts
begging for magic that alludes us.

Until a light shines on what we need,
when what we want dissipates, concedes
to Need's magic illumination.

© Kåre Enga (1.juin.2017) [174.115]

To the prompt: "Invalid Item
81,122
June 2, 2017 at 3:22pm
June 2, 2017 at 3:22pm
#912252
Beyond the fog

Two lines converge beyond the other side
of tomorrow, where future's fog hides fruits
of what we have wrought today. We walk tracks,
balancing on rails, oblivious to youth
that fades. We focus on the present tense,
relaxed, rambunctious, unafraid of what
we cannot see nor touch, merely mimic
what we're told, then do whatever we must.
We play along the tracks, balance on rails,
oblivious to tarred pine ties that bind us
and what lies beyond the fog tomorrow.

© Kåre Enga (1.juin.2017) [174.114]

Day 1 for "Invalid Item

"Invalid Item
June 1, 2017 at 6:45pm
June 1, 2017 at 6:45pm
#912199
G7 Summit

We all stand there and chatter
about the hot weather,
and whether and when and how
we resist this great threat.

We all gather together
to take a group photo,
get out of the way of one
who aspires to be great.

And that is the real problem,
for those chosen to lead:
we-all choose to love our world
while one just chooses to hate.

K Enga (27.mai.2017) [174.106]

Note: really needs fixing but that will happen some other day.
June 1, 2017 at 2:16am
June 1, 2017 at 2:16am
#912142
Driverless, the cab meanders...

         inspired by Stephen T Johnson

The cab meanders through old haunts,
revisiting red bricks covered by asphalt,
the yellow ones now strewn with ivy.

These old elms were young when the cab was young,
when Checkers were the kings of taxis,
for princes and princesses craving comfort,
who sank ample butts into new cushions.

Who rides there now if not their ghosts.

The cab meanders from midnight till two.
It has nothing better to do,
and without a driver, goes where it wills,
picking up passengers...
whenever it chooses to.

K Enga (30.may.2017) [174.113]

Written at MPL, found in Redbook, p.35
81,114

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