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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 |
| This is not winter: pink orchids in bloom, heat wilting tall trees, no breeze, just dry leaves. The child we once were remembers white glare, ice, bone numbing cold. Behold, we are old. KE (16.desember.2023) |
| Rice fields on the way to Sisaket Stretching farther than I can see, nothing but empty fields, puddles, spare trees. The rice fields have been harvested. Emerald puddles glisten under clear skies, no smoke in sight. As water buffalo graze I lounge in my seat, gaze out the window. I sit still as the world flies by. as my words slow down, no longer able to keep up. As I doze, they stumble between the stubble, among memories of corn, wheat and beans; but, when I wake up, only rice-straw bundles stare back at me. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga (10.desember.2024) 12 lines |
| "Bittersweet, for the most part bitter" Off to Hat Yai to sing karaoke, visit the markets, the babes of the night. Bitter lips and ripened oranges. Bittersweet, for the most part bitter. Off to Malaysia to stay in a hostel, explore the city, inhale duck rice, and fish satay by the bay. Bittersweet, for the most part bitter. Return to Thailand, visa problems, nine hour train ride, arrive, Pan not home. No one to hug, sleep alone. Bittersweet, for the most part bitter. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga (2.desember.2023) |
| Nong Prajak waddle to the puddle paddle cross the nong quack or kap kap kap neither one is wrong come to Udon Thani on a yellow Monday hug a mellow ducky sing some silly song © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.149c] (3.november.2023)  Note: A big yellow duck adorns the entry to the 'lake' we call Nong Prajak. It's one of the symbols of Udon Thani, Thailand. The paddle boats are also yellow ducks. Kap = quack but it's not aspirated like in English and is written kab. Yellow is the traditional color for Monday in Thailand. None of this is obscure to anyone who lives here. It would need no explanation. Pannya sings 'mo lam' by-the-way. I have photos on facebook: https://web.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=6326800740687830&set=pb.100000739010621.... https://web.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=6506220542745848&set=pb.100000739010621.... Earlier version: Nong Prajak waddle to the puddle paddle cross the nong quack or kap kap kap neither one is wrong come to Udon Thani on a yellow Monday hug a big bad ducky sing a joyful song KE [180.149] (3.november.2023) |
| The essence of the mollusk isn't that gritty intrusion that has been covered with nacre, that you've harvested to sell on strings. Far better to enjoy raw oysters, clams casino, braised scallops. For a pearl wants to be worn; it cannot be eaten. KE [180.146] (30.10.23) |
| Clip clop Clip, clop; the unicorn passes them by. I hang like a fly under the harness. I have places to go where frightened men dare not — or can't. I chant to the beat of the clip-clop cant! We slow to a canter as we enter the village. Ten centaurs await us, blocking the way, braying — you shan't. (13.oktober.2023) |
| Purr inspired by Martina Lupton Kramer In space no one can hear you purr, Zmitri. On that barren rock, no one hears you cry out in thirst. I mourn your absence and my loneliness. Head towards the daystar. I'll meet you there. Where we embrace we'll find our forever home. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.106.zm] (28.august.2023) 8 lines, 44 words. |
| From the tower From the tower 4 distant mountains lay in shadow, 8 cloaked, choked by smoke, 4 veiled, washed by rain, 4 thunder blaring, 4 lightning cackling; wet drops lashing 8 the window pane 4 = 36 Remote as clouds 4 grey-green mountains squat like islands, 8 moonlit mystery, 5 green as jungles, 4 nightly noisy, 4 like cities of frogs and herons 8 lit by starlight 4 = 37 clouds now gather 4 around the condo's fourteen floors 8 mountains glower, 4 sad, diminished 4 by human eyes 4 who only see piles of money 8 and what it buys 4 = 36 © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.106.zm] (20.august.2023) 21 lines |
| Under a sky full of stars In a firmament black as pitchblende the first rock felt lonely until beckoned by a distant light, lit by you, Zmitri. As it flew like a comet towards you, I hitched a ride for free. And I, under a sky full of stars, saw only you, Zmitri. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.88zm] (8.august.2023) |
| Alien in Aisle Eleven! I watched clouds come in from the east a ROILing mess of grey and black — water and anger. I sat there as if to BROIL was my ticket to hell, like beef or beets, steamed like prawns or frogs. You RECOIL at my reddened face, my peeling arms, my pimples; yet, sit there in nothing but your banana bikini. I've seen better in Aisle Eleven. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.75] (30.juli.2023) |
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