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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 |
| Stories of stone What stories stones could tell of ancient laborers so long gone, even their ghosts have left. The stones remain. Hard bones of someone's bent ambition, placed or raised to repel the ravages of change, millennia after they've been forgotten. Those frail creatures, those land-bound laborers, eyes gazing at heights they longed to reach, short-lived, their dream of leaving a legacy for endless time. Yet, even stones must die. Not yet, whisper unlit lamps and empty streets. Not yet, respond the darkened windows. Prideful towers echo: not yet, not yet. © Kåre Enga (15.juin.2017) [174.138] /30:15.1/  Earlier version kept here for reference: Stories of stone What stories stones could tell of ancient laborers so long dead, even their ghosts have moved-on. The stones remain. Hard bones of someone's ambition, placed or raised to withstand the ravages of change, millennia after they've been forgotten. These frail creatures, these land-bound laborers, eyes gazing at the heights, short-lived, dreaming of leaving a legacy for endless time. Yet, even stones must die. Not yet, whisper the unlit lamps and empty streets. Not yet, respond the darkened windows. Even the prideful towers echo, not yet, not yet. © Kåre Enga (15.juin.2017) [174.138] /30:15.1/ |
| Children of Ra It's time. They hobble under the waxing Sun, their skin cold-hardened, turned to stone. They whisper through cracked lips: soon, soon — a quiet chorus, to entice the Orb's return, entrap it with their nets, to tap its rays, feel warmth return to depths within. It's time. It's time. Their crescendo begins to crack their outer skin. Inner embers lit, they blaze anew. Sloughing lifeless sheaths, eyes glow and supple arms rise to praise their Sun. They beam, beacons of a New Age that's begun. © Kåre Enga (15.juin.2017) [174.137] /30:15.2/  Earlier version kept here for reference: Children of Ra It's time. They hobble under the waxing Sun, their skin cold-hardened, turned to stone. They barely whisper through cracked lips, soon, soon, in a quiet chorus meant to entice the Orb's return, to entrap it with their nets, to tap its rays, to feel warmth enter the depths within. It's time. It's time. Their crescendo begins to crack their outer skin. Their inner embers lit, they blaze anew. Casting off their lifeless hide, they raise faces, supple arms, to praise their Sun. They begin to glow as a new Age has begun. |
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