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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 |
| Free to soar the caged bird sings Let it go. Life is not an end in itself, only an adventure that like all good things must end. Protect your soul on its journey but release the cage it is bound to once it has become useless. We all return to our Source. for one hundred years—same sweet melody same apple branch © Kåre Enga [176.60c] (27.april.2019) |
| One lane highway Avoid traffic. Become a nightowl in a village of farmers, a farmer in a landscape of highrises, a highrise on a distant moon. Not everything is earthbound. Before you were born — neither were you. the Highway to Damnation—clogged from so many souls Find your own sacred path back Home. © Kåre Enga [176.60b] (27.april.2019) |
| One cannot live on lies alone With difficulty, scan the headlines and try not to cry. The truth isn't there. Read further to unleash whatever modicum of wisdom lies hidden among the noxious weeds and inedible crumbs. house-sparrows munch grass—wild elephants spread wings © Kåre Enga [176.60a] (27.april.2019) 101.400 views |
| Apricot buds in April When apricot buds burst forth and snow is in the forecast, no amount of prayer will guarantee fruit come harvest-time if they aren't covered up. One could lament about the weather — or plant apples instead. crying frozen tears—resurrection prayers © Kåre Enga (27.april.2019) [176.59] |
| In our cerulean nightmares In Darkness we curse Light for having abandoned us. Deep in cold caves we huddle with wolves while bears sleep. For how many years of winter have we held on. For whom do we weep. We are silenced by the undaunted visage of Cerberus, his cerulean eyes staring through us. © Kåre Enga [176.57] (25.april.2019) 101.382 |
| Summer of '76 I was green corn, green wheat, flaxen haired in an orange shirt cutting shattercane in Kansas. Like vinho verde, a bit tart, like a green apple, a bit sour, but innocent and kinda sweet (so they told me). Green defined me. Now some old muddled hue, I wish to be plaid: the red of rage, the yellow of joy, the deep brooding blues, the passion of orange. And green, most definitely green, back working the fields of Nemaha County. © Kåre Enga (25.aibreán.2019) [176.56] 101.371 |
| In our rocking chairs Rock away the ruins of this morning's cobwebs. Replenish the reliquary of the mind. Rock against rock until the relics arise. Reclaim, revision the brambles that we find. Among the crumbs of remembrance — rock on. © Kåre Enga (24.april.2019) [176.55] Our local teacher, Emily Walters, quotes another poet who says that titles should include a place, a date or furniture... here's your furniture. 101.348 |
| The Other America We lick our wounds hoping to heal, like a dog- pack protect our weak pups from the "great leader" who picks at our scabs, bleeds us to death, scars us slowly with a thousand cruel cuts unrepenting. Unrelenting, we huddle in orchards once know as paradise, hide under scorched pears and bruised plums, a pack of scared people, like dented cans of peaches, weeping along the seams. © Kåre Enga (23.april.2019) [176.52] 101.346 |
| Limpan Sweet bread of my childhood not dark sour pumpernickel, nor a caraway-seeded poser, it was orange rind and dark molasses, pale rye mixed and molded, left to rise: Limpan. My Swedish family knew its proper name. Spread with butter, enough to keep hope alive that my roots hadn't withered and that someday I'd bake my own loaf of Swedish rye. © Kåre Enga (21.april.2019) [176.51] |
| Spring bursts yellow When long days follow the sun back north, and cold dark pine pierces cold bright white: Hear the silent tinkling of yellow-bells! Touch a shy umbrella of biscuit- root! Smell buttercups gleaming in a seep of mud! Cry for a weep of misted daffodils nodding in rain! After dark pine pierces cold bright white—spring bursts yellow in Montana. © Kåre Enga (21.april.2019) [176.51] 101.264 |
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