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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 |
| Knock on wood I am the face that waits for fairies, the door you cannot see nor squeeze through. Wait on a toadstool until a druid passes by and deigns to help you. Here we practice calm and peace. Here we show the utmost patience, a virtue should you wish to see us. So sit and rest then dream and wait. K Enga (8.juni.2017) [174.127] /30:8.1/ prompt:  81.169 |
| As I tremble A child sits on the edge of a precipice, watches birds weave through blue sky, wonders what it's like to fly. She sits there prim and pink and calm, listening to the siren notes of bird calls as if the sky could catch her should she fall. I avert my eyes and walk away. She has no wings with which to fly. I will not wait to watch her die. K Enga (8.junio.2017) [174.126] /30:8.2/ prompt:  |
prompt:  In Mongolia My camel laughs. I laugh. I laugh. My camel laughs. Flat dry plains stretch past far horizons. Our laughter barely fits. © Kåre Enga (7.junio.2017) [174.125] /30:7.2/ |
| Umbilical forever Wires plugged into walls, earphones plugged into phones, we remain attached to the source, unwilling to be born. When did it start— if not in the womb— when someone forgot to cut the cord; we carry the placenta with us. Hard-wired, we do not wander far; our soft-ware's programmed to self-destruct if we dare unplug. We incubate until we're ready to procreate, eager to be reborn. © Kåre Enga (7.juin.2017) [174.124] /30:7.1/ prompt: |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.
