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 |
April shadows Ice clings to winter deep in furrows where April shadows water-seeps still frozen waiting for June's melt. Should spring ne'er come — like high-peak snowbanks persisting year to year, like traces of life that lie in wait in dark bleak reaches of the Void, will I hold on? Whence then your sun and when — come to soften stiffened hearts, to mend these scars of frost and drought scratched across the sleeping landscape of our thoughts? When you waken them, what then? © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.40] (13.april.2021) 20 lines For:
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We are Yellow Yellowbells rang to buttercups, beckoning bees and the Salish starving for fresh food in this mud season of death, and tired of fish. They rang silently on slopes of the mountains, flats along the river, wherever there was moisture or a crevice. Yellow, they rang in clear tones, we are yellow, the sign of the last snows as melt fills the river. We are Yellow, a harbinger of plenty to come. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.42] (24.april.2021) For
Wilflowers taboo words: flower, field, scent, bunch, pretty or any derivatives of these words |
Minnesota Mayday We saw Chauvin murder Floyd, saw it with our own two eyes. What are we now supposed to deny? We saw speeches spewing hate, saw hatred ignite quiescent flames, saw tiki-torches marching. We watched the silent films depict goose-stepping callow beardless youth never asking how nor why. We read how Hebrews called upon Heavens to slaughter their appointed enemies; heartless, we cheered them on. We don't look in mirrors tarnished by time, fearful of what monster therein resides, wearing our unmasked face. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.40] Inspired by ridinghhood-p.boutilier |
So much remains taboo in the post-British-colonial world. The Puritans and Victorians ... left a legacy of joyless rules. Do I write a poem about sex? Do I write one without limpid rhymes? Is ghastly good enough? We mixed black and brown and white, added red and yellow, painted with our multi-colored palette to piss over your inhumanity, your insistence that you were better. We mangled Shakespeare's plays, strangled Lord What's-his-face's poems, as we dared to question your ignoble history of death, replaced it with our vibrant colors. You were never better than we were: your polluted water made us ill, your piss perfume hid your fetid odor, your glee angered us as you killed anyone who stood in your way. You stole our language left us with this bastard tongue of commerce, pride and treachery. We want our love back, our lullabys of bounteous lands and seas. We beg you go back to where you belong. You stole our culture, peace and harmony and left us fish and chips. [39] 24 lines ... so far. |