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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 |
| This passage into night One glimpse of your dying light would be nice as your eyes flutter in response as clouds color my thoughts and midges dance above the branches and moths take flight, drawn to lamplight. Amber fades to puce as blue turns grey as life weakens your last breath begins to dissipate like mist. Do we resist this passage into night. Do we embrace the death of sight. Will we be reborn yet another day. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.142.s] (12.juni.2021) |
| Flag Day and the Death of Democracy The flag hangs limp in the heat of the day or when soaked by rain. Its day of glory fades at sunset. It fears the twilight when another flag may replace it atop the pole. Half mast — does it mourn the death of democracy. How did it became a fashion symbol of autocracy, wrapped around the populace like a blanket of fake conspiracies — then sat upon. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.141] (12.juni.2021) Flag Day was important when and where I grew up. |
| Last goodbye A last goodbye. So little of nothing that no one remembers. So unexpected — there was nothing to say. The sun sets unaware that I sit here thinking of you in the dark waiting for sleep to veil you then unveil you at the breaking of dawn. The day-star sets oblivious that my heart was broken long ago, that its healing rays of hope no longer brighten days. That last goodbye. So little said. So unexpected that there was nothing to say. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.140.s] (11.juni.2021) |
| To the Sun The clouds parted and I could see clearly through rain-washed skies. Is this what's promised by the rainbows that define our lives. No rainbows tonight. Only a promise that after the cleansing life has been protected from the dusty death by drought. You're past the horizon now but the golden lined clouds still mark your presence in the dying light. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.139] (10.juni.2021) |
| So many clouds between us The sun set on you two hours ago. How many suns have set since last I saw you. Over 5 thousand have passed. How many more. Will this lifetime pass us by. Will an eternity keep us apart. If I beg the Moon to deliver a message — will you look up. Will you receive it. Or will clouds obscure my cursive across its face. So many suns. So many moons. So many clouds between us. will you ever write me back to tell me that you love me too © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.138.s] (8.juni.2021) |
| It doesn't matter No sun. No shadow. How black and white mean nothing without each other. How a blind man will say it doesn't matter. Do you love me? Love me like the gravity keeping me on this spinning rock. Do we define ourselves as good or bad, compare ourselves to others? God would say it doesn't matter, how you are loved with or without the sun, with or without a shadow. For where there's love — it doesn't matter. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.137.s] (7.juni.2021) |
| Siren song You serenade me from the land of the setting sun, enter my window to cool my flesh while the roar of the river beckons from below. What tales do you whisper with your siren song. What wisdom's lost to one who's deaf. Clouds will color your message soon. They hang out above me to send down blessings. How often have I prayed for rain. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.136.s] (6.juni.2021) |
| Lundy's nook When Gary moves who'll take his place? Violet haired or spiked in pink, who will sit and stare and think or pen prose poems in lilac ink? Who will sit in this sacred spot, and make it all their own; unaware, that a well-known prince, a poet, perched upon this throne. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.135] (5.juni.2021) |
| Topaz to amber to rust Hot winds wither the lavender fleur-des-lis and shred the wisps aloft. At dusk the flag waves, a gesture in vernal lust. Before nightfall cools me off you're fast asleep in your own time zone as I watch light shift from topaz to amber to rust. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.134.s] (4.juni.2021) |
| Reflection of a joyous day My silhouette on the wall ringed in a golden halo, as ephemeral as the sunset's glow fading on the mountains, like your smile when once I turned my back but saw your grimace in a mirror, the reflection of a joyous day now concealed by a horizon, where we'll never meet again. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.133] (3.juni.2021) |
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