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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 |
| Two islands And the islands shrugged their shoulders the waters flowing out in a rush. Did they seek a better place? They took everything when they moved out. Left only the beaches suspended in the heights. Dry bare ridges, still dry, still bare. Has it been a thousand years? Below, where their waists meet the river where the flow that divides them wanders between the hair of the willow, the billow of Balm of Gilead gone to seed, the bloom of camas and arrow-root balsam, indigo and gold, spare sustenance for strange new animals that live in skins, that now raise new mountains to gather like ants in an anthill. When will the waters return? Cloud tears join in their plight, bright snow gathering between dark pines, promise that the deep cold lake will return and they will be islands once more. © Kåre Enga [21.januar.2017] Note: Mt. Jumbo and Mt. Sentinel were islands in Ice Age Lake Missoula... a few years ago. |
| One with it all And I am one with the mountain, voles under the snow, pines sleeping till Spring. Awake, ravens seek refuge. I wish them good luck. An eagle soars over us. And I soar as well. What spell binds us, all to each other. Without movement—no life; but, even mountains must move; the river, eroding its banks, bears witness. And I am one with it all, even the planets and stars, and I stop to wonder... How I'd be one with you too, if you were on the farside of the moon; How I wish you lived closer. © Kåre Enga [18.January.2017; revised 19.March.2017] Original post: One with it all And I am one with the mountain, voles under the snow, pines sleeping till Spring. Awake, ravens seek refuge. I wish them good luck. An eagle soars over us. And I soar as well. What spell binds us, all to each other. Without movement—no life; but, even mountains must move, as the river eroding its banks bears witness. And I am one with it all, even the planets and stars, and I stop to wonder... How I'd be one with you too, if you were on the farside of the moon; but, I wish you lived closer. © Kåre Enga [18.January.2017] |
| Down the old gravel road There was a house where my uncle lived, where my grandmother before him took in my mother, 12 and homeless, her father having lost it all, ill with carbuncles, her mother coping, her sister taking on the chores of raising the kids, until they all left, fled, until she too found a way out. Years later, my mother followed. And there-in lies the tale, truth or not, my grandparents' white house sitting on the hillside, my uncle still around the corner, the lilacs, the hollyhocks, the garden under the willow, the red cardinal flying overhead, my grandfather's bird, while we picked orange nasturtiums planted in white painted tires, to give to my grandmother, maker of bread, maker of split-pea soup. My parents are part of this too, but I can't remember. It was summer, I slept in the cool basement, I used the porcelain pot to pee, too young to climb the red sidewalk at night, to find the two-seated outhouse in the dark. © Kåre Enga [19.January.2017] |
| Mundane Monday and the sun rises over the mountain ridge. Morning's mutter... too many mms. I often dreamt of moving to a state with the first letter M. But it was always Minnesota or Mississippi. Never Montana, never a city like MizAloo. More mms. Now I follow the routine of movement from bed to a chair at the Senior Center, meeting friends. Monday: fried chicken, mashed taters and sweet potaters. A lunch meal for four dollars: coffee, buttermilk biscuits, tomato soup.. milk. Goals: make a list, make it short, make it... Write, edit, post. Take photos, edit, post. Call my mother? Not this Monday. Keep track of the mundane in a journal. Remember to make note how much the last trip cost. Make plans for Mandalay, Myanmar, Manila... yet more mmms. Mere busy work; yet, the day becomes full, there are moments to jot down. Long before midnight: make hot cocoa, add milk. Just a musing about my mundane life... © Kåre Enga [16.january.2017] |
| January before the thaw Sun shadows snowy paths as black outlines of pine a pattern ebony and ivory freeze this interlude before the melt when the rites of Spring crescendo from pianissimo to the croak of frogs. In this hush of glistening crystals, the stillness of a river encased in ice murmurs beneath our sight. Days of twilight lengthen as we trudge down paths, the only sound the crunch we make. Echoes cannot come back to us, bound by frozen air, lost in this season before rebirth. © Kåre Enga [15.january.2017] |
| Southbound Snow blizzards across the road, blurs the edge of the ditch. Southward bound with Mario, we slip over ice packed ruts, homeward bound after having left my house. Nerves grip the steering wheel. wheels grip whatever they can. Nunda looms in front of me, vanishes in the rear view mirror, A blip on some map. Between here and there, here becomes a moment to focus, to stay on the road, The snow embraces this white car on white road. In the back, Faith sits with Confidence, tensely gripping hands. © Kåre Enga [14.january.2017] |
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