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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 |
| How myths move among us We went to town once, dressed as townfolk, ate as townfolk, minded our manners. It was a grey day when foreigners flocked to the yearly festival. Under dull skies we wore matching cloaks, mirrored movements, mimicked their oohs and aahs. We relished mingling unnoticed. Until one child looked me in the eye and pointed, saw beneath our disguise. We fled, just in time, and the ripples we had dared to summon returned to calm our deadened eyes. We went to town once, decades ago, when I was merely another unspoken child. Now I'm a myth moving among them. Ever ready to hide. © Kåre Enga [20.August.2016] Soft clay Rex leaves his marks in soft clay. The spice of his breath entices me... if it weren't for his spines. He glances through my dreams, then hides. Night monsters gather at dusk but he banishes them all with a flash of sunshine. Then he's not there. With a wink only his shadow remains to glide over ice, to dance over sand, prance through green meadows. He terrifies all, but not me. On my island I beg him to stay. He's left his mark in more than soft clay. © Kåre Enga [6.agosto.2016, San José] Four choices Re Johnson, Trump, Clinton, Stein He's an oasis: one palm, cool waters, undefilable, alone. He broadcasts that everyone could live this way if they chose. But—where to find one's own oasis? He doesn't know—this one is taken. Orange crested crow that scatters the meek. He seeks to annoy them with fairy tales and promises that glitter. He flitters and gloats. His boasts grate across the nerves of the proud, of the polite, all alike; except, the victims he vanguishes. He's a disgrace to all vampires, real or disguised. Hard as hematite, the unhappy principal deals with the crazies each day: hyper-sensitive board members, idealistic teachers, rowdy students, unforgiving parents. Besides a pension and pain-killers what does she gain? She thinks she's makes a difference. Snow covered, she towers, a giant spreading above the green. She's the willow that bends in the breeze or the oak that crashes in a storm. We wonder as she breathes air that her minions refreshen. She's says she's Guardian of Our Mother. But few worship at her shrine. © Kåre Enga [6.agosto.2016] Kiosko No se vee la jacaranda que huele por la noche ni los gritos de los pobres que no callan antes de la madrugada. Un raya de lejos abre los cielos. Todo tranquilo aquí. Las calles tiene su ritmo, su cadenza crece y muere. Allá el tráfico pasa en pizzocata. Los animales maullan. Los hombres esconden por las sombras bajo las lámparas de los senderos. Pocos entran por el kiosko esta noche de paz. Aquí nos sentamos, las arañas por su red. Te esperamos. © Kåre Enga [2.agosto.2016, San José] |
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