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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 |
| Budapest was a grand city. João decided to go up Gellert Hill in Buda since it was Saturday and the synagogue was closed for Shabbat and he wasn't Jewish... as far as he knew. The family kept its secrets and seemed to lie about so much. He met a lady along the path talking to Arthur... one of the stray Gellert cats. He stopped to chat. Seems there are kind people everywhere he thought. He was in a good mood as he climbed up flights of stairs. If only I could fly! Then he looked down and focused on going up to see the view. The Buda Hills lay off to the north. Old limestone outcroppings with mansions clinging like baubles. Below, the Danube flowing with it's tour boats and across the river Pest fanned out from the parliament. Budapest was a grand city. He decided to visit Mátyás-templon with it's floating Mary amid its decorated walls and ceilings, no negative space left blank there! He stopped in at the Loreto chapel to pay his respects; stayed for a short prayer. A moment of peace; the tourist were everywhere. That night he went to see the fountain with it's myriad colored lights. The music played on for almost an hour. Sheer wonder. He wandered back through the alleys through the Ruin Bars and sat down to relax. The ruins were lively. There was an undeniable spirit about the place. Sunday dawned grey and damp. Time to tramp off to the synagogue. He gently took out a package: one silver tooth, a clove of garlic, a non-descript worn stone. Place them at the Tree-of-Life as an offering, Agnes had said. Why not? He was intrigued by a place that had survived the Holocaust if if its member had been hunted by the Arrow Cross Party, deported and put to death. That was long before he was born; long before his mother was born... he thought. He wasn't so sure sure about his grandmother; she seemed ageless somehow. He grabbed a hat. Hat off in a Catholic church; hat on in a synagogue. He giggled at the tune in his head... hat's on... hats off... hats on... hats off... like a bad commercial or a Disney cartoon. The synagogue was awesome; the gravestones and memorial moving. The Tree-of-Life... He approach it warily. It glistened even on a grey day. Metal branches drooped, some cut off. It reminded him of the old willow back home. Not picture pretty but reassuring life continued every Spring, non-the-less. There was a plaque in front and a few stones. He'd seen stones in graveyards before. Small remembrances, enduring tributes. What did Agnes have to remember. He waited until he was alone. He placed the silver tooth with the other offerings, placed the clove of garlic carefully. He had worn gloves just in case and it was a cool day so he thought no one would notice. He took them off and held the worn stone in his palms, closed his eyes as if it could tell him what he wanted to know. He felt a ray of sunshine caress his neck, a breeze touch his cheek, a taste of salt in his mouth. He gently placed it with the other stones. The Tree-of-Life quickened. It seemed to move. He thought he heard it speak. © Kåre Enga [17.novembre.2016] About 550 words. |
| Three cinquains: 1. Orange hair. Sniffles and sneer. Blames others for his faults. What could grab your _______ and wring them? Yuge hands. 2. Cold fog hides hard landings, freezes fear of falling. Warm pee trickles until the hatch opens. 3. Snowflakes cover tender crops freezing our deepest fears of what's never out of season: hunger. © Kåre Enga [16.noiembrie.2016] |
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