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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 |
| Hosted by the Ghost sing it Write about a ghost a holy host no DNA of Jesus in that Holy Host. Write some ghastly verses disappear like curses banished by a ghost, that Holy Ghost. Share them with Our Father, share them with His Son, let them pass right through you like a friendly ghost. Speak with truthful tongue; Let Their will be done; embrace your inner spirit, that Holy Ghost. © Kåre Enga [174.23] (8.april.2017) Earlier version: Hosted by the Ghost sing it Write about a ghost a holy host no DNA of Jesus in that Holy Host. Write some ghostly verses disappear like curses banished by the ghost, that Holy Ghost. Share them with your Father, share them with His Son, let them pass right through you like a friendly ghost. Speak with truthful tongue; Let Their will be done; embrace your inner spirit, that Holy Ghost. © Kåre Enga [174.23] (8.april.2017) 80.645 Dew Drop Inn prompt was ghost/ghostly (blinded by the light... sing it) |
| Unknown script What script wrote itself across this asphalt; what message can be discerned from scribbles? We throw the stones to read the future. We're left with bones now rid of flesh. Do we press our thoughts between dead papers or give them voice? What poetry expressed, recited when the road slid side to side, what verses voiced as Death embraced what slid from Life. How can I read these bones, bring what is hidden to light? © Kåre Enga [174.21] (7.april.2017) Written at UM at Kwasny/Bitsui reading. |
| Note that this poem uses present tense as if written in 1850. Daylight robbery In Donegal—in Dingle in t' jingle—of t' keys of t' jails—when t' English tax t' Irish—who can't see out small windows—sooty walls of cold damp stone—past t' reeds at crosses—of their children newly planted—sprung like weeds from fevers—from starvation while t' nobles—spread their ass's on benches—bought with taxes on each window—filled with glass, while t' Irish—robbed of sunlight in t' darkness—bow with beads. For tis legal—if not moral that t' wealthy—hide dark deeds. In Ireland—on yr journeys heed t' wailing—if you please. In Limerick—in Listowel light a candle—pray on knees. © Kåre Enga [174.22] (8.april.2017) Dew Drop Inn prompt was "something illegal" but I chose to think of what was legal but not moral. Around 1690, windows were taxed. This poem came about after a talk with my friend Michele Mulligan. |
| Colorshift Born yellow, I darkened to a luscious shade of olive, took dry soil and sucked up each drop of water. My shriveled torso plumped out. I reached toward sunrays, spread out my arms, but my ancient roots stunted my growth. Without wings or height, I'll never fly like Icarus before the fall... or be flattened after. Hug me, hoard each squeezed out drop. In me, preserve your herbs and spices. Let me color the palate of life's plate, my youthful yellow, my ancient olive, shifting with the light. © Kåre Enga [174.20] (7.april.2017) At Kwasny/Bitsui reading, UM. |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.