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 |
Masked mash The ghosts of horror movies past show up at parties wearing masks for even ghosts dread getting ill and living guests don't beg the thrill of dying. They say one dies but once, but die again? Enough to become a ghost and then haunt your friends. Ghosts' ghoulish stories come-to-life, their dying screams, those slashing knives, (the bloody mess) and bloodier insanity as each outdoes the other with great glee. No one hears the door click shut. No one sees the store-bought robot pocket the key. Who screams first or rather who screams last as ghouls up the volume to a blast... Let's dance dance dance! ...so nosy neighbors don't notice the knash of teeth that chomp, the well-aimed slash among true friends that gather monthly to prance and scream to relive horrors of the movie screen. © Kåre Enga [177.256] (17.oktober.2020) 24 lines of rhyming verse For:
Honorable mention: |
** Image ID #2233407 Unavailable ** Me in the mirror Whisper and leave a message in the air a gossamer of mist upon the mirror for in the mansion of my mind I cannot leave; yet, do not look if you dare not perceive that like a narcissus I was once like you. I deceived myself by thinking that I was better, more fair, more open hearted until enamored with the lie I became what now you can only see: a myth, a maiden, a spectre that resides behind the glass, pressed by silver at my back, as thin as your dreams where everything seems to be what you desire. Dare not enter my nightmares where I now betide dark memories that make me shudder, where I hide the monsters of my own grim making. Cover me in thick black cloth so I cannot see; leave me here where I can do no harm; never touch my hair that dangles as if to summon you into my lair; live your life; forget about me. © Kåre Enga [177.254] (23.october.2020) 21 lines for
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