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 |
Peace until the rise of dawn1 A solivagant2 seeks a night3 better than one thousand months —finding peace on soft hay— sleeps till dawn. © Kåre Enga [177.116] (2.juli.2020) For:
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Comforting Sophie I can't leave her side; Sophie's my eyes; "Eternal Night" they call me. She whimpers and snuggles; that's all I can do. Her ears must hurt more than mine. Year after year, the same celebration, every July until she died. She's deaf now, stuffed with cotton filling; when I cannot sleep she comforts me. © Kåre Enga [177.113] (31.juli.2020) (16 lines) FIREWORK DISPLAY taboo words: fireworks sparklers crackles bangs bright or any derivatives of these words. For:
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Once upon a time in Ontario There once was an asshole from Guelph who hid behind books on the shelf who would jump out to frighten the librarian from Brighton who blamelessly pissed on himself. Till one day some fine fellow elves, who highly respected themselves, decided this was tragic so they stripped him of magic and now he's an elf on a shelf. © Kåre Enga [177.112] (7.juni.2020) (10 lines, limerick) Prompt: elves For:
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In a garden Handsome beseeched with a voice so melliloquent we never guessed his words concealed malevolence. © Kåre Enga [177.111] (1.juli.2020)
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For: "The Daily Poem" July 1: petrichor. Antidote The ground thirsts in the silence as mud dries to dirt, turns to dust and leaves fall, too weak to hold on and we look with weary eyes at clouds that bring nothing but far off thunder, promises never kept, a fearsome taunt that threatens fires or powerful gusts lifting debris as we flee and cough until that moment when leaden skies have had enough, and overflowing, dump its despair over all of us turning dusty fields into a flood of mud that releases its pent up anger and angst in bursts of perfume that welcome us to dance in puddles and inhale the antidote of death. Petrichor! Before we knew your name, we knew that rain delighted worms and bugs, the birds, the flowers, the trees, and us with your aroma of renewal. © Kåre Enga [177.110] (1.juli.2020) |