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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 |
| Lucy I was born into a land of light embraced by the Creator of Love itself buoyed by an ocean of luminescence. But I heard your cries, saw your struggles, how clouds of ignorance hid you from our light, how the depths of darkness bound you. I gave you a lantern and a candle to guide you, hung a fruit of enlightenment I had fashioned, its ripe bounty dangling from a bough before you. I was warned but overcame my fear. I offered you glory and desire of knowledge. I was banished; my light extinguished. Once I went by another name. But you can call me Lucy. © Kåre Enga [174.13] (4.abril.2017) Earlier version: Lucy I was born into a land of light embraced by the creator of Love itself buoyed by an ocean of luminescence. But I heard your cries, saw your struggles, how the clouds of ignorance hid our light, how the depths of darkness bound you. I gave you a lantern and a candle to guide you, hung a fruit of enlightenment I had fashioned, its ripe bounty dangling from a bough before you. I was warned but I had overcome my fear. I offered you glory and desire of knowledge. I was banished; my light was extinguished. Once I went by another name. But you can call me Lucy. © Kåre Enga [174.13] (4.abril.2017) |
| Wheel He told her they should tumble, that what goes around—would not become a round, that he'd return by tulip time. That Tuesday he left town? She should've tacked his treads. © Kåre Enga [174.12] (4.avril.2017) Note prompt from Dew Drop Inn: technology 80.607 |
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