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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 |
| It's 10:55 in Louisiana. Hurricane Ida is about to make landfall. This morning's winds topped out at 150. Grand Isle's wx station lost connection at 136 mph. So, yeah. I'm motivated to write about disasters. They eliminate the numbness. Fury unleashed and unapologetic. So I won't apologize for my musings. Ode to Ida El Caribe is a big tub in which to swim. The sun, the sand, the rain, the wind. Tiny islands poke defiant fingers to the sky, as if to pierce her clouds. There's still a long journey across warm waters ahead. As August leaves to become September a couple cuddles in Louisiana. Jamaicans want to play. They prayed for rain so now she showers their mountains, scrubs their cities, shampoos their beaches. Better than Ivory soap, she floats above them. The Caymans were thirsty. They no longer thirst. As I put on the pot I must remember a baby suckles in Louisiana. Cuba stands in the way. He always does. Defiant as Castro and as prepared. There's no need to linger where there are no souls ripe for harvest. They're hunkered down. One peak rises above her clouds. She bats it down. As the water boils I must remember an old man huddles in Louisiana. The Gulf stretches, flat as a speedway, no bumps in sight. Smooth sailing to whatever port she chooses to visit. She ignores the no vacancy signs. But she expected a warm welcome; her temper flares. As I overfill my cup I must remember someone's crying in Louisiana. Now shores act as if they don't want a cleansing, try to put up a shield to turn her fury aside, to send her east or west or — they fail like they always do. Mud doesn't care how it's stirred nor where it settles. As I drink my coffee I must remember someone's dying in Louisiana. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.217] (29.août.2021) ~320 words Posted in "Blogville "  105.618 |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.