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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 |
| Making rösti I grab a potato, before morning breaks, try not to draw blood as I peel it's skin careful of fingers, I grate to the end, I must work quickly, before you awake. I add garlic, parsley, add a pinch more. I cry over onions, stir in a yolk, remember our fight, harsh words I misspoke, then fry to a crisp, pancakes you adore. I go to our bedside, breakfast on a tray, orange juice and coffee to brighten your day. Before I awake you I sit down and sketch your splotched wrinkled skin, inhale morning's breath. You snore beautifully, what more can I say? Before dawn's light, I made rösti today. © Kå re Enga (24.abril.2017) [174.47] Rösti = Swiss potato pancakes Dew Drop Inn #23... write a sonnet they said...  Earlier version: I grab a potato, before morning breaks, try not to draw blood as I peel it's skin careful of fingers, I grate to the end, I must work quickly, before you awake. I add garlic, parsley, add a pinch more. I cry over onions, stir in a yolk, remember our fight, harsh words I misspoke. I fry to a crisp, pancakes you adore. I go to our bedside, breakfast on a tray, orange juice and coffee to brighten your day. Before I awake you I sit down and sketch splotchy wrinkled skin; inhale morning's breath. You snore beautifully, what more can I say? Before dawn's light, I made rösti today. 80.804 |
| Blood moon rising Smoke of sedition; grey pall falling; fire of perdition; Blood Moon rising. We huddle in darkness; thunder rumbles. Brightness of a slash renders all asunder. What have You wrought, we cry out to clouds. Cracks a response: you've done this to yourselves. Smoke of sedition; grey pall falling; fire of perdition; Blood Moon rising. Valleys cleave in two as both sides quiver, gaze across the gap, for once we were one. Earth begins to crumble; we flee deepened chasms widening between us. Too late, we have lost. Smoke of sedition; grey pall falling; fire of perdition; Blood Moon rising. © Kåre Enga (23.april.2017) [174.46] |
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