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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 |
| A procrastinator gives thanks every November I'm grateful for January, March and December for giving me extra days to catch up, for February that cuts winter's grief short, and September to remember golden autumns past, and for May when spring's warmth returns — at last, and every month that adds to the years, hopeful that I may live long enough to let go of my fears — and all my stuff. KE [177.284] (14.november.2020) 15 lines of no particular form (some rhyme and rhythm) probably free verse For
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| A prayer of submission Cut out my tongue if it betrays my heart; good words mean nothing if my deeds are not. Allow me to rest at Your feet in submission for nowhere is peaceful without an admission that my spirit withers cut off from the Ark alike the Moon that can't shine should the Sun go dark. KE [177.283] (14.november.2020) For
A short poem of 6 longer lines (aabbcc). Prompt: "giving thanks" |
| Chest-scape of survival I wear these tattoos on my chest. Glare, if you must, where I once had breasts, not to remind you of what I've lost, to honor who I am — and still remain. Stare now at this chest-scape of survival, the designs I chose to give me hope, these flowers that you'll never pluck, this flow of water that you long to touch. It cools my thoughts as I boldly strut, my chest bare and proud to defy your pity. Don't ever berate the choices I've made. Be thankful — they've led me out of the grave. KE [177.282] (22.november.2020) 12 lines: thankful for:
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.
