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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 |
| The river is wide The river rests — frozen over. Memories of the past a palimpsest of snow begging me to etch new beginnnings but the melt breaks through like spring that follows winter like summer that follows spring. In autumn I thought I had time, time enough, but winter's blast has found me, frozen me here on the banks of cold waters I shall never cross over — again. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.299] (3.januar.2022) |
| 9 degrees Nine degrees and falling falling it's destination zero but come the break of day old man the rising sun's our hero. Then will it melt the ice and snow or will it make me fall? that I cannot say old man put on your grips or crawl. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.298] (1.januar.2022) It was actually 9 degrees and the low? Who knows. I didn't get up till noon. For
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| Keep your distance White ashes fall from livid skies, chilled children of faraway waters, pile wherever they can find a perch. Protected from wind, they drift like dunes as cold seeks to invade my refuge. Only glass panes divide those living from the dead while I watch flakes dance, then stealthily seek a warmer nook. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.297] (26.desember.2021) For
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| A the bear snoozes — oblivious in its cave I sit by the cold window — watching snowflakes [296a] B I sit on the toilet thinking of today's meal what comes out — is yesterday's news [296b] C cold descends on mountains — settles in the valley Thoughts — like snowflakes — rise and fall and wander [296c] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.296] (26.desember.2021) |
| A hiding from sunlight — the cave-dweller lifts a book sets it down again [295a] B when where how Oblivion responds why why why [295b] C sunlight sends tendrils into his room — he cowers in dark corners [295c] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.295] (24.desember.2021) |
| cold nips the wings of those who soar above me — rests in my bones [178.294a] The window pane protects the green leaves — I look out at snow [178.294b] smell of woodsy mushrooms and acrid onions — wintry thoughts fade [178.294c] The soft chair that hugged young flesh — now hardened bruises bones [178.294d] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.294] (23.december.2021) |
| Pears What's only good in pies and sauce — apples! Overrated. Adorning trees before the frost — red and round or rotten. Erase your nightmares now and seek — a form more succulent. And in an instant what appears — Anjou, Bartlett, Comice. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.292] (21.december.2021) For
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| Any opinion which ones you like? Wintry haiku A snow, snow drifts, the daughters of snow — caws from winter's crow [291a] B ice glazes walkways — green pines tinkle as we fall [291b] C wind hollows drifts turning everything white — where did the mountains go [291c] D slip, slide, slush covers the walkways — one red coat [291d] E grey, grey, grey, more grey than the sky can hold — snow squalls [291e] F one dark spot amidst the 'spance of white — Ah, a crow [291f] G sunny beach day we arrive in shorts — locals shiver [291g] H pointsettia blooms — also red shorts and redder sunburn [291h] I so tired of rain, we rejoice with the sun — anyone thirsty? [291i] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.291] (20.desember.2021) For Week #29
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Onions roasting in a toaster-oven   Onions roast with spuds and carrots coated with slick olive juice, heated in a toaster oven, filling rooms with acrid smoke. My aging aunt once lost her senses, couldn't tell when food was burning; only onions warned, "don't torch the house." She was grateful for this smelly gift. In this Season of Covid coughs are suspect, spreading cheer to those too close. Losing one's sense of smell seems fatal, till the scent of onions knocks us out. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.288] (13.desember.2021) For
Week # 28. Write a poem based on this idea/feeling: 'The scent cascaded into every room.' Form: author's choice Line Count: minimum of 12 I'm still chewing my cud. From Cubby (not collectable here):   |
| Soxie and the Foxes Bobby likes boxes. Sandy likes sand. Their kitten plays with soxes then gently nips my hand. Now Soxie sleeps in boxes, poops in the sand. She plays with feral foxes. They've formed a backyard band. © 2021 Kåre Enga [178.281] (5.desember.2021) For
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