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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 |
The first line is for
There was a strange sound coming from under the bed of course. Spot and Cookie always fought over the heating grate. They prefered that to warming my cold feet! My feet were forever cold. "Born blue", "My blue baby", my mother was constantly surprised that I'd survived. "We dressed him in red to warm him up", my father would add, "like a mini Santa". Yes my birthday was the 23rd of December. They named me Navidad. Now they never mention it without crying. "Felix Navidad was such a beautiful young boy until..." Until what mom and dad? Until the day I ran away or was it the day I told you I was trans and wanted you to call me Zoe? Or was it the day you got 'the call'. Do you want me to remind you? "So sorry but your daughter was in an accident." Accident my ass. My brakes were cut and everyone knows it. "It's better this way," they all lamented. Better for whom? Not for me! I'd just had implants and now they were leaking just like the rest of me. I could show you pictures. Yes, they have pictures. But you didn't want to look, didn't even want to come to the hospital until grandma begged you. Was it the day I died? No, you felt relief. Was it the moment I revived and gave grandma a heart attack? Sorry about that, Nana, but you wouldn't let me go! So, I stayed. As blue as ever. My feet forever cold. I'd ask Spot and Cookie to join me. They know I'm still here. But cats... they do as they will. Cookie will lick my cheek and Spot meows as if I could answer. If I ever wake up I will. It's odd knowing what's going on and not being able to tell you 'where to go'. If I ever walk again I'll run away, run away from you and 'Felix', your beautiful boy. I'll take grandma with me. She sits with me you know. Never did leave me except for her funeral. I think she was curious. She smiles a lot. Spot and Cookie knows she's there. Thankfully you don't. They're all I have. Flat on my back and hooked up like a Christmas tree, I plan. What else can I do? Last night I made a light flicker and rugs seem to slip out from under you. You change a bulb, swear you'll be careful next time you get out of the tub. You don't suspect it could be me. No, it could be your beautiful boy. And it isn't. It's me, Zoe. Now an item:
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 Icarus drowning in a sea of oil Brueghel was never frugal, covering canvas with every color I know ... because I google. © Kåre Enga [177.265a] (24.oktober.2020) 24 syllables: 7/10/7 axa rhyme. Prompt: 'frugal'. Note that 'I know' can be the end of line 2 or beginning of line 3; it fits both and is done on purpose. For
Bonus? Dog, Ma? "Where's the dog, Ma?" "Chewing on the bear, Paw, reading Revelations, dogging dogma's expectations." © Kåre Enga [177.265b] (24.oktober.2020) 24 syllables (or silly bulls): 4/6/6/8. Prompt: dogma |
| Pink It's the softness of the color pink when worn by a rose or Rosa wrapped in a cashmere sweater inviting me to eat mayo mixed with beets ensalada rusa se dice in soft tones looking at me sadly as if this loss of what made me — me — were all there ever was to me. I seek a new definition: bold blue hair, crisp crimsom skirt, black lace and black velvet, purple — anywhere and everywhere. I refuse to be reduced to a ribbon in your memory. Remember how we walked October's arbors of yellow and green turning gold, orange rowan berries dangling, clouds scudding across a troubled tourquoise sky rustling the leaves, and yet, pink — how it cheers up that tiny cottage, its eaves trimmed in white. © Kåre Enga [177.262] (23.oktober.2020) 18 lines free verse For October 2020:
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| My name's not Jack! Just call me Pumpkin my name's not Jack. I hide behind my cousins way in the back. I'm nothing to look at just another squash with one caveat I will not be quashed or carved into a grin to be marked or hatched. I have dignity that I defend — learned in the patch. Since I must die don't think of me as decoration bake me into pie I'll exceed your expectation. I promise. No lie. Just serve me to the poorest child or to the homeless man, those who remember how they smiled when grandma set the pan to cool. Oh, how they all would drool! My name's not Jack! I will not die to bully or scare Allow me to serve those who give back, who share, and sharing let me be grateful and not upset to die by caring without regrets. © Copyright 2020 Kåre Enga [177.257] 32 lines of abab rhyme
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| Masked mash The ghosts of horror movies past show up at parties wearing masks for even ghosts dread getting ill and living guests don't beg the thrill of dying. They say one dies but once, but die again? Enough to become a ghost and then haunt your friends. Ghosts' ghoulish stories come-to-life, their dying screams, those slashing knives, (the bloody mess) and bloodier insanity as each outdoes the other with great glee. No one hears the door click shut. No one sees the store-bought robot pocket the key. Who screams first or rather who screams last as ghouls up the volume to a blast... Let's dance dance dance! ...so nosy neighbors don't notice the knash of teeth that chomp, the well-aimed slash among true friends that gather monthly to prance and scream to relive horrors of the movie screen. © Kåre Enga [177.256] (17.oktober.2020) 24 lines of rhyming verse For:
Honorable mention:  |
| ** Image ID #2233407 Unavailable ** Me in the mirror Whisper and leave a message in the air a gossamer of mist upon the mirror for in the mansion of my mind I cannot leave; yet, do not look if you dare not perceive that like a narcissus I was once like you. I deceived myself by thinking that I was better, more fair, more open hearted until enamored with the lie I became what now you can only see: a myth, a maiden, a spectre that resides behind the glass, pressed by silver at my back, as thin as your dreams where everything seems to be what you desire. Dare not enter my nightmares where I now betide dark memories that make me shudder, where I hide the monsters of my own grim making. Cover me in thick black cloth so I cannot see; leave me here where I can do no harm; never touch my hair that dangles as if to summon you into my lair; live your life; forget about me. © Kåre Enga [177.254] (23.october.2020) 21 lines for
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Mad dogs and... To apricate, an Englishman lies down at noon, soon shimmers shades of apricot, a bud abloom. © Kåre Enga [177.253] (16.oktober.2020) 24 syllables: 8/4/8/4 with some alliteration, rhythm, rhyme. apricate: to sunbathe or bask in the sun For:
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| Mazed I enter, exit, always amazed how lost I get; yet, always find my way through life's labyrinth. © Kåre Enga [177.251] (14.oktober.2020) 24 syllables: 5/8/1/7/3 free verse; prompt: labyrinth. For:
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| Lone Elm There's something to be said for napping with a cat on the lap a dog curled at one's feet a cup of tea at fingertips gazing out the window at snowflakes sifting over a bird feeder, blujays, and one lone cardinal. And after stormy gales a blanket of hush, the calm of sunlight over drifted fields, the sky a stunning blue. One can get used to quiet, drama kept at bay by hedgerows that mark the boundaries of fields, of wheat and corn and hay. Everyday, routines become a harmony to the melody of wind rustling dead leaves. Oh, these memories of Lone Elm a place where I've never lived yet long to be. © Kåre Enga [177.250] (13.oktober.2020) |
| Mist shrouds the mountains I Mist shrouds the mountains, the mountains turning white; deep in dark valleys old pines discuss the sight. Fires quelled in autumn yet embers warm their feet; hearts reduced to ash beneath the pall still beat. II You stand there looking up at me and wondering out loud how you could climb my mountain so hesitant — so cowed. But I will surely thunder back beneath my thinning crest that lessons of my youth still glow to guide you on your quest. © Copyright Kåre Enga [177.249] (13.oktober.2020) For:
16 lines 4 quatrains with xaxa rhyme divided into two parts. The first is based on more concrete images and has a syllabic pattern of 5/6/5/6. The second is more 'personal' and has a 8/6/8/6 pattern. |
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