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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 |
prompt:  What she remembers before the lamp gutters out I do not remember the year only that it was winter and the unpaved streets were empty although the night was still young and a crescent moon lit the way of the wary windows dark doors shut street lamps guttering out. Weary, I watched a moonlit man in a top hat walking towards me wandering down the stone-clad sidewalk as if he hadn't a worry as the clock struck the hour and steam rose from the city to block out the moon, bare tree limbs reaching out as if to snatch it. They say that no one screams before Jack rips out your throat. I would know. That much I do remember... Steam rises to gag winter's moon before it gasps and breaks this silence. K Enga (10.june.2017) [174.130] /30:10.2/ Note: a ramble, could become a prose or prose poem... maybe, or a hybrid form, similar to a haibun. Too soon to edit properly, IMHO. 81.185 |
| Lime Ricky Ricky wanted to climb back into the lime soda, its green placenta abandoned, its womb empty. Ejected after its fizz popped and its water broke-- covering everything in reach with limey froth-- Ricky groped around, gasping for breath. He was a land animal now, no longer a swimmer embraced by lime-green jism. He looked around. There was no glass of rum waiting for a jinn, a squirt of citrus, an orphaned man. He jumped, as if he could squeeze back into the bottle, hanging on as I took his picture. But as we all know, once birthed, we can never re-enter the womb. K Enga (10.junio.2017) [174.129] /30:10.1/  |
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