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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 |
| Commuting 5 in the morning, train to catch. I must go to work in a blizzard. Coffee won't help. A good-bye hug wouldn't hurt; but I dare not wake him up. I move quickly, quietly. Winds rattle windows; chill creeps along the pine floor. There my lover rests on a woven mat, covered with a down comforter. No one comforts me. I sigh as I leave, in one movement open and shut the door. sunrise feathered lover sleeping Fragments: The greatest song that I can sing, The song that only I can sing: The Song of Myself. A scummy veil. A certain slant of light. How the water bends the knife soaking in the pail. Under midnatt solen Lyset synger og sommer gjesper Over fjella, over enga. Folket sover og går til senga Gatane tømmes og Aksla våkner. CV Vamp Puns: Brett: another way to spell brat. His wurst always seeks hot buns. He'll be run out of town if he doesn't behave; or worse, be shunned. Mr. Nightengale: the scarlet letter , the red V, the source of our elixir, the dapper keeper of life-giving blood. Czeszniak: one pun follows another. Questions are pointed, answers deep rivers. What pain propels his laughter we'll never know. Knyflok: fog forms over cold waters, a warm breeze brings mist. Both wrap us in forgetfulness. Clovia: vermillion drips in a swirl over the door to her barber shop. Beware her razor. Bawang: do not ask whether Bawang is male or female. Respect fangs that have no gender, that are sharpened every day. Thoom: sees what once was sunshine hidden in the shadows or what weak ember, ignored, may blaze tomorrow. Le canal de St. Martin We float pink, turquoise, yellow. The bright colors of commerce, the rattty leavings of refuse. We look up at the boats, nuzzle them along the water-line. We sleep against the canal's stone walls, brighter than hyacinths in bloom in the park, almost as fragrant. We lose our individuality, slowly melding into the stagnant stench of in this forgotten eddy. We float joined each day by new plastic hues, bloat then sink. In this corner of a famous canal in a famous city, we remain unseen. tri-color flowered flag sinks |
| Vampire stories in the raw (lightly salted, barely silvered): Smell of fear R92 NaNo73 25.Nov Who: Old Sniffer When: mid-winter. Can be Part 1, 2 or 3. Theme: an unknown fear Smell of fear Old Sniffer went walking along the old train tracks attracted by the fragrance of fresh blood. No vultures to fend off, he thought. It was almost the dark of the new moon and mid-winter. The odor was carried on a faint breeze. One horse neighed when he walked by. Obviously it had smelled the fear too. Yes, fear. Beyond the now overwhelming scent of blood there was fear. A body slowly revealed itself. Human, straddled across the rails as if a train had rolled over it. —I’m late, Old Sniffer said to the wind. One arm and both legs severed, the head bashed. It was a child of about 10. The blood would be tasty but he turned and walked to neighbor’s house and had them call the police then called Mr. Nightengale, the mortician. The cops gave Old Sniffer the complete up and down. —Why were you walking along the tracks at that time of night… —It was the shortest route on a cold wintry night. —Why alone… At some point his neighbor spoke up. —He was coming to see me. Two cups of cups of coffee were on the kitchen table and a deck of cards. —And why did you call Mr. N… —Body severed, head bashed; he’s dead. —How do you know it’s a boy… —Dressed like a boy, short hair. —How could you see? It’s dark… —My eyes may be old officer but I can see. My night vision has always been excellent. The cops weren’t buying it. —Stay put… So old Sniffer and the neighbor sat down to play gin. When they loaded the body bag into the hearse (it was there; it was handy; the child was obviously dead; no rescue; no ambulance needed.) an older cop came in. —You can go now, she said in a soft voice that tried to cover her emotions. It betrayed hurt. The neighbor spoke up. —Know who it is? The cop nodded. — Fits the description of a girl that’s been missing since morning. She was from Lansing. Only 9. The neighbor sighed. —Sit down. Want some coffee? —Oh, I can’t but thank-you. I’ve seen my share of death, but this was brutal. And just a child. I guess someone wanted to make it look like a train had passed. —Well, they would’ve had to wait. It’s been many years since they passed through daily. They still come through now and then. —Hmmm, the cop nodded, then left. —What do you know? the neighbor said when he and Old Sniffer were alone. —She was afraid. I could smell it. There’s was a horse in the field. She could smell it too. Doesn’t take much to figure that out. —No. And yes. —How much do you know about predator and prey? Old Sniffer asked, picked up a card, discarded. —Sometimes they know. Not everyone is afraid of death. And sometimes it comes so quick there is no time for fear. That child was afraid. Of what, I don’t know. But I suspect she was afraid long before she was killed. No, it wasn’t a new fear either. —Gin, his neighbor said. There was no joy in the word. —It’s odd what one learns if you live long enough. You should visit more often. I’m 77 next birthday but I suspect you have a lot to teach me. And I could teach you gin, Old Sniffer grinned. —Well, I do like to win. By-the-way, thank-you for what you said to the cops. —No problem. You can pay me back by stopping by some night next week. The cops? They’re paid to be nosy, but some have no manners. They treat everyone like dirt. Back in the day, the neighbor continued, I had my run -ins too. They played gin till 4 in the morn, until Old Sniffer said, time to leave. —Ah, it’s late. Need a lift? —No. I’ll walk back along those tracks; I can see well enough, the horse may need to speak to me and it’s safer than taking the road. There’s idiots out at night around here. But, I’ll let the cops look that spot over before I walk there again, maybe after a snow. What Old Sniffer didn’t tell the neighbor was that he knew more than he was telling and that snow didn’t hide the smell of blood anymore then a cup of coffee and gin hid fear. © Kåre Enga [316] 25.November Lessons: RedBook 91a; NaNo 61; 21.November [303] Who: Czeszniak, Ajo When: no season. Part 3. Theme: wisdom and eternity Lessons Ajo interviews Czeszniak: —I have met many scribes over the years, whether they spoke in pictures or words. It was the same story. Read this. Know me and my place, my family, my community, they would write. What they meant was… know ME, what I've endured, my failures, my triumphs. Even lists of who did what to whom and when or the price of salt or corn reveals the world of the scribe and his place within it. Look at the murals found in caves painted before the Egyptians. They tell the same stories of hunter and hunted, the lover and his captured bounty or his loss. The rise and fall of civilizations can be known by reading between the ancient lines on the walls of grottoes. Little has changed. There is Mother Earth in her majesty and the mystery of the stars. There is the comings and goings of mortals, so self-absorbed yet there are lessons to be learned by their interactions with it all and the belief that there was something beyond their knowing. They prayed to that spirit for wisdom so seldom granted. Cracked vessels can’t hold on to the essence of knowledge anymore than our bodies can retain our souls forever. What flows from the source returns to it in time. Your eyes ask about time. Life’s but a blink and you know it. Mine may be two blinks or three and Thoom’s a few dozen. Knyflok’s gaze into eternity. But even his soul knows it’s but a blink and that his vessel , no matter how well-fashioned, will someday break. Even the scribes of old knew that there was much in their world older and wiser and they gave thanks when wisdom was shared. Even stones have wisdom. We just don’t have the ears to hear nor the patience to listen. —How do I gain that patience? —You don’t. You make assumptions and over generations come closer to the truth, but nylon will comfort you that after all these millennia he’s no closer than the nearest star. —So how do I learn anything? —By putting your nose in it or traveling afar! We live for today, but each day is yesterday’s tomorrow and every tomorrow passing into yesterday. You do well considering you came here not knowing yourself, afraid of no future. Now you know your future will be remembered by Knyflok as some distant past, like rays from a beloved but dying star. It is humbling. I know. But you should be filled with joy. You’ll always be cherished and remembered as cherished. What will be forgotten is the daily dross that hides the gem that’s inside you, pulses inside you, what survives the winds of fire and the drowning flood. Much like a zircon you’re precious. Poets sometimes try to explain this but for many rhythm and rhyme are mere toys and the soul of existence is stripped of its joy. Some do better. Read Rumi, Tagore or Lalla or the ancient wisdom of a hundred cultures handed down by generations, memorized even before there were scribes to write it. —You learned this from books? —No! Czeszniak laughed. I read books upon books, from myths to stories written for children to the weighty tomes of the Dark Night of the Soul. No. Books only help me look deeper, ask more questions that my lifetime will never answer. When you read Romeo and Juliet did you ever think of what you could’ve said? One thought it was the nightingale, the other the lark. We know now that it was the Owl of Death calling their names. But which of us would’ve understood that morning? No. Better to know the sweet songs of the night, the sweeter songs of the morning. The swoop of the owl is silent at best. —Is it better to not know then? —Perhaps. There are always those who know, even welcome the breaking of the vessel to set free the soul. Some have stood in harms way to free others. —But then what’s the difference between humans and vampires? —Oh, vampires are human enough. We eat, drink and breathe. We only have certain gifts and certain burdens we must someday see as the same. We’re no better, just live long enough to see patterns in air, earth, and water. Flesh is nothing but a weave of the three with a pinch of fire to burst forth in flame or smolder like embers. When the ember dies out, when the flame is snuffed, all become an exhale of breath and crumbling bone as words return to syllables and sounds, as books disintegrate and paint flakes off the walls of caves. Such is the wisdom scribbled by the scribes. All returns to earth as hot ash or wet clay. © Kåre Enga [303] 21.November |
| Spent Days slip away. Once I had many. Now they’d fill one holey basket and that one small. Every morning I walk down the path to tomorrow I lose one more. So small and insignificant when they gathered in multitudes. So precious now. I’d follow them back but that way ’s been erased. I marvel at how they scurry into recesses of rock, tree and grass, like dropped coins along this ever-shortening path. © Kåre Enga 15.march.2014. In your oceanic nightmare for Clovia Ripples cross these sunset waters. Reach your blood-shot shores. You haven’t slept for centuries. Tiny sticks prick your eyelids, pin them open. Your iris blooms in scarlet, turns to black. He’s back and tossing, turning, won’t release his grip. He clings like nits in matted hair. You swear you’ll wake and quick forget him. The moment shifts and now hot clouds blush pink, you’re Rose-of-the-Universe, your orbs twin suns, your thoughts actions swirling through the nothingness. You speak and grass appears. You take a nap. Your eyes have burned through blackness revealing red lines streaked on white. They twirl in a dance before you. You feel a wetness on your cheek. Rain! You exclaim and it does. Waters cleanse; waters gather; puddles join and soon the sound of waterfalls fills your silence. Stop! And all turns rainbow. You’re tired but the grass lies fathoms below the water. You float and cannot sleep. He comes to you in daydreams, ever closer. Your tear-ducts leak and all turns pink. His ripples reach out across sunset waters to burn your cheek. © Kåre Enga 14.march.2014 RedBook #104 Once upon a nightmare … only once for Thoom Mouth gagged, eyes covered, you struggle to hear where you are. Hard rock answers in a soft tender voice, “You are here”. A stone rolls away. Warmth touches your brow. You want to cry out as tears turn to acid, deepen into runnels. A mist washes the salt away. You awake to crows and a cock calling thrice. Your eyes feed the caws your ears can’t ignore; your taught skin touches ice. The night’s adventure continues. You soar, arms flung out as wide as the sea. Only those who have gone blind the forest can see you are nailed to a tree. You float down to a meadow. Grass sprouts from your wounds, tickles your ears. You hear crows from afar. They cackle that your cock has been strangled, boiled in wine turned into water. You wake once more. Where is the door to this coffin? “What is a door?” the rock whispers. Black wings lift your bones one-by-one through a hole filled with night. You lie in a pile. Light caresses what’s left. And this time you wake for real … to never dream again. © Kåre Enga 8.march.2014 RedBook#99 In your family nightmare for Ajo You are his father’s son. His laughter, his joy. A ripple crosses an Oklahoma lake. You’re both young and have a full head of hair. Sun bakes his summer; his fishing hole shimmers. Your winter winds freeze it. He skates. You skate. The pond dissolves into dust. Wind howls. Sands blast. He’s in Africa, strung up on wires. You try to reach him. You can’t. “You’re not born yet” sings a young skinny woman with thick black hair. She has bad teeth. She’s you mother. You see through her, a boy being born, a tow headed runner. You can run faster than your father’s laughter. You hide while a girl-child is born. She’s bigger than you. You wish to be her brother. She smiles and nods then dresses you up like a doll. You learn to bowl and play baseball. No sweat. Your laughter echoes the old man’s laughter. You make him feel young. You’re a chip-off-his-block. He teaches you things about life. You understand. You’re wild; you are free. You know he loves you. You roar like an Tulsa tornado. You yawn and tell the boy to wake up, that it’s only a dream. His father is dead and it’s time he grew up. You look in the mirror and see his father’s son. © Kåre Enga 1.December.2009 [166.328] RedBook #96 Faggot! Child eater! They’ll say this and worse. What you are won’t matter much. I will hold you tight to me, savor every bite. © Kåre Enga 16.march.2014 Trolls We work in winter under the snow, bask in caves where you never go. Out-of-sight; out-of-mind; not quite humankind. © Kåre Enga March.2014 Quetzal Green, light as feathers, a dream leaning back off a twig, careful not to ruffle twin tail feathers, a flight of emerald through emerald, jewels you try to capture in your mind. © Kåre Enga 2.march.2014 Ready or not —When the owl calls my name I’ll be ready, she said. He inhaled her perfume, worried. —Oh, not with an insurance policy, my last wishes locked up in a will. I’ll be ready. I’m ready now. He lay there open eyed while she slept. Soft moonlight caressed her form. She was too young, he thought. At two she woke up and an owl passed before the moon with one hoot. —No, the owl didn’t whisper my name, she said reading his thoughts. He snuggled closer. —He whispered yours, and she sank into his trembling hug. © Kåre Enga 28.February.2014 Free advice He sat on the bench, a small sign scrawled: free advice. I’ll even pay them he muttered. It had been a long winter in a town where he knew no one, where no one cared to know him. No one stopped. He went to the corner, ordered a coffee and a hazelnut roll. 40 kroner. He sat there in silence. Others came in and went out or sat down with friends. No one spoke to him. He went back to the bench and put up a new sign. “I’ll give you 5 kroner to listen to my advice”. He sat there for hours alone with the sparrows pecking for crumbs. They are lucky he thought. At sunset when chill filled the Spring air, he got up, put his hand in his pocket, jiggled his money and went down the cobblestone street towards the room he called home. And muttered to a passing bird: When will I learn. © Kåre Enga 28.februar.2014 To those who dare ignore my magnificence: I am the rock and the scree! Glaciers. My snow-white blanket. Waterfalls. The Giants’ tresses. Tind. I poke my fingers to the sky. © Kåre Enga March.2014. |
| In a stallion's nightmare for Ajo He runs naked through the grassy fields and you chase him balls swinging, arms begging him to come home. You break out in sweat and he's lying there ass-up and begging. You put on a saddle and ride him through the sunsets to the end of the plains. At dawn he is gone, bareback and finally free. You pick up his blanket and gently hold the broken reins. You will ask for him in every bordello, search through your dreams. He runs wild and you must tame him or accept he was only a one night's mare and not the stallion he seemd. You wander off in no particular direction. You ask the vultures who gather which way he's gone. They clean your flesh, lift your bones. You ride the thermals with them high above mountains. You search for swift moving hooves with a long flowing mane. He's paler than a Palominao you tell your companions. You point him out and they circle to feast. They spit you out at his feet. You speak deep into his eyes. I know I'm your nightmare but without you I can't dream. © Kåre Enga [166.325] 30.november.2009 |
| In your dying nightmare for Betty You are young and your sister is beating your mother with her doll. Give me 10 whacks, not 9, she crows. You cower in a trash heap of chicken bones. You count them: one-thousand one, one-thousand two... Your brother finds you and hands you your doll. You bite off its head, tear off its arms. It smiles and you know the train whistles at noon. You run to catch it, scream to the top of your lungs for it to stop. I deserve better than living like this! You are old, spooning oatmeal at the old folks home. Your mother and sister spit back at you. If you can't play nice you'll get no more dolls. You add honey and arsenic and feed them some more. You make yourself a chicken sandwich. You choke on a bone. You count the seconds till darkness engulfs you. You wake to a light held by a nurse with the face of your mother. She says that you died but some angel must've bit you. You lay there unable to spit back in her face. You are crippled and your heart pounds and aches. You piss on yourself unsure of your fate. You cry out to Death. You bastard, I deserve better than living like this! © Kåre Enga 166.326 30.november.2009 [NaNo#83, page 95 red book] |
| In your Transylvanian nightmare for Meadowlark Dracula appears out of nowhere on the TV big screen. He steps out of the picture, sees you cringing with feat. He offers to put on a pot of tea, asks whether he should bring you some scones. He steps back into his coffin to get some. You blink your eyes and he's gone but Morticia appears with a bunch of white roses dripping blood. She snips off the buds, arranges the thorns, cries out, "Is the tea on?" You get up to pee, make it there just in time, look in the mirror, see bones looking back, brass coins in the sockets. You try to scream but your jaw falls to the floor. You run back to your room, dive under the covers. You hear a bell ring and a gentleman's soft voice. You peek to see a hand holding a plate. You say thank-you to where a face would be if there were one. You sip red rose-hips bobbing in broth. It tastes sweet like czernina. You don't see Dracula approach. Is it sweet enough, he implores and holds up a head of a woman. Could it use some more sugar. He takes out a spoon to catch some red drops as you nod. I'm glad you approve. It's my mother and I only had one. © Kåre Enga [166.324] #93 late November, 2009 |
| In your coldest nightmare for Lily You flap wings and fly through deep caverns. A wolf whimpers in vain. You do not answer. Frost scampers out of your way as you pass. Your wings bring winter. An old man cries out! Go home. You breathe hailstones. His nostrils fall off. The cave mouth's mother is your womb, your tomb. She tells you to leave her to rot. Warm winds blow you out. You seek shelter in the Alps. Mont Blanc says you look beautiful. You ignore him and fly to the moon. Your father is waiting. He's not amused. You're late. Where is your date? Go back and get him. You cry. You know it's a trap. Crystal tears drop on the Alps. You move to Lyon, to Toulouse. They find you in Paris. Two rats snarl and grab your baguette. You bash at their tails. They lead you into Temptation, a fine chocolate shop. You drink tea with the queen and prime minister. Italy! they exclaim and make you ambassador. On the way, Mount Blanc awaits and opens his mouth. You fall into a crevice and lie there for centuries. You wake up. The queen's lost her head. Your father's still waiting. Your mother's still bitter. Your cave has become a tourist hot spot. You want to die and you would. If only you could. © Kåre Enga 2009.december.02 [#97] [166.329+?] |
| "In your bluish nightmare" for Bunny You have wings of a moth. You burn in blue flames. Cornflowers and periwinkle burst forth. You are running and the meadow caresses your small feet. You trip over a blue blue toe. The giant laughs and picks you up with his hand. You are not afraid. He has deep cobalt eyes. You see a lake reflected there. You climb over his cheek and fall in. You land on blue moss. Spruce blocks the sun. It's cool and it's Sunday and your grandmother is collecting honey for tonight's paprikash. You ask the blue harebells which way to go. They speak with an accent you don't understand. So you run toward a patch of blue sky. You tumble into a boat, paddle with blue oars. You are old when you reach the opposite shore. Dinner is long over. Grandma has moved. your mother banishes you to your room that disappears. You remember a friend from the meadow. He reappears aglow in the moonlight. He says "why did you kill me?" He holds a blue candle. You spread wings of a moth. You burn in his flame. 3 December 2009 [166.331] |
| #51 Post-a-card to Gary from PZ Ten minutes past the angelus and you aren’t here… You never have been. After bells stop ringing my ears, the song of the city returns: whistles and chirps from black birds, chatter from park benches, the noise of traffic that shows no patience or knows but doesn’t care. You’re there, Gare, and I sit alone in this balcony chair. What can I see that you can’t? Lights of the season flicker and cotton candy and churros beckon. The festival of spending money has quickened; pockets thin and avarice thickens. ‘Tis a season that has abandoned all virtue for a bank note, the only note it can croak. But you are there where snow hushes the jingles, those incessant jingles and annoying loops playing the same tunes over and over and … There are few birds and those hungry. The season of cotton candy is long past when powder sugar sifts from the skies. But here or there it’s the same festival of spend, spend, spend. Lights blink; lights flicker. The church empties, spilling out joy, but the streets remain full of sadness. © Kåre Enga 11.diciembre.2013 #52 The Angel from Cayetano A young man sleeps. Pierced ear, pierced eyebrow, well-trimmed hair on his head, hole in his jeans. His tennis shoes stretch to the edge of the bench. Maybe his dreams are accompanied by the rain, soft drops drowned out by the band of youth singing on the other side of the market. Nothing wakes him. He does not move. Others take respite from getting wet. They carry umbrellas, a bottle in hand, suck candy. A young girl puts hair in her mouth while we wait for the bus. We hardly hear the back-up peeps or squeaks of turning wheels. One comes in windshield wipers scattering drops. What is clear here if not the rain cleansed air? There’s a certain peacefulness albeit not quiet. Even clouds boomed just once today. No one harbors anger. No one bothers the bird or two that sought shelter. A brown bitch noses the boxes for scraps. I avert my eyes in this Season of Asking for Money, or shake my head. The young man doesn’t see the hard-to-decipher looks he receives. Now his arms strike a different pose. He doesn’t know there’s a fly foraging on him. I avert my eyes in this Season-of-Asking-for-Money, or shake my head. Bread sits behind cases; shoes rest in windows, benches at the market terminal fill then empty, then fill again. The angel rouses, stumbles to the bus for San Cayetano, a young drunk with a wink in his eye going home. © Kåre Enga 14.diciembre.2013. 75.713 |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.