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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 |
| Resolving you I stand too far and see a blob I do not know one with the crowd, fuzzy cipher, and yet aglow, and I am attracted, like a moth to the flame eager to embrace your essence, to ask your name. I come too close and see only black and white dots, brown mole on your lip, a whisker missed, aging spots. When I open my heart I see you dearly now: soft wrinkles, firm grip, under young strong brows: love's knot. KE [177.58] (30.april.2020) Alexandrine rhyming couplets. Notes: Resolve: (of something seen at a distance) turn into a different form when seen more clearly. "the orange glow resolved itself into four lanterns" Similar: turn into, be transformed into, become clearly visible as, change into, metamorphose into, be transmuted into (of optical or photographic equipment) separate or distinguish between (closely adjacent objects). "Hubble was able to resolve six variable stars in M31" separately distinguish (peaks in a graph or spectrum). 104.164 |
| ...our nerves are wound back to the breaking, ears strained for the ghost of a wrong note. From "Drum Beat: The Eleventh Night", a poem of Northern Ireland (1973) by Rosemary Canavan. Mutiny Our troubles started before Twenty-Twenty but vision became blurred by constant lies; hindsight sees so much more clearly. As drumming of incessant nonsense drowned out voices of reason, seldom reached those who nurtured a conscience. For there was enough blame to shame a nation, enough hatred to hurry the end of our nation as Our Dear Leader bowed to ovations. What went wrong and when we asked ourselves. We got fingers wagging, pointing. We might as well have asked that damn elf on the shelf. Now what will we do. Abandon ship, pink slips in fists, ready to pummel those in our way? Or will we look in the mirror and get a grip and will we stand in lines to cast our vote. ... our nerves ... wound back to the breaking, ears strained for the ghost of a wrong note. KE [177.57] (29.april.2020) |
| Spirit of the meandering stream Tears fall on mountains, feel the weight of gravity, slowly wend their way down to roots or down in rivulets to streams that babble over rocks, placed in their way. No time for chatter, to stay to greet the greening banks strewn with falling petals; the willow waves good day. All gives way to water as it wanders, droplets dancing to celestial songs. KE [177.56] (28.april.2020) https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10156745955395728&set=a.61847975727&type... |
| Fire in the woods Four words of dread as lodgepine flames and underbrush burns. The distant fires send smoke signals to warn us: fire in the woods, where flare ups coalesce and devour what lies in between combining forces in a wall of heat racing east burning what lies in its path. We hear news from China, fairy tales of a fiery foe. But from afar: too foreign, not us, not US; we brush them off as some fantasy. Do we ever heed smoke signals, the lightning strikes, the looming black clouds that seek to consume us. Do we wait too long then flee with only what we have on, leaving our life behind as blinded, mankind buries its apprehensions as comprehension dawns in ash, as piles of Mardi Gras masks catch fire, all good intentions neatly stacked on the funeral pyre. KE [177.53] (27.april.2020) |
| Sonata for one It's the voice in my head speaking to myself drowning you out, distracting from the day, comic blurbs of dreams and disassociations no one can hear as gears grind out ideas that won't be shared, a litany of unspoken thoughts, grand deeds that won't get done, empty maracas rattling between my ears. KE [177.52] (26.april.2020) 104.151 |
| Parasite to my Muse You give me dreams but not the means to build a scaffold to hang them on, promise powder puff skies that hide at night dissipate by day so many rainbows so little rain just enough moisture to keep on living my body a host for your visions. When I'm finished sucked dry an empty husk left to crumble to dust where will you go who will welcome you next. KE [177.50] (25.aprille.2020) |
| What never comes ... never comes the sum of zero and something still adds up to something but zero plus zero will never equal one waiting for calls, a picture, something leaving a number, address, keys to a heart. they're there on the table in envelopes waiting to be opened. it's never enough but the giver knows that gifts must sent and if not delivered, if not wanted, it matters not. KE [177.49] (24.abril.2020) |
| A pitter-patter of nothingness You splashed water at me while I read, wetting the book, stoking my flames begging me to rise like a thunderhead, to hailstone all hell on your games. And I do, over and over again, old man. It's been too many years, decades it seems since the drought of words began. This silence between us screams. I listen to the drip-drip of the faucet, wind lashing rain on the window panes. Do I ever value a gift till I've lost it? I will never forget your name. A pitter-patter of lost opportunities. A pitter-patter of soft gentle rain. A pitter-patter that leaves the earth thirsty. A pitter-patter of nothingness bringing pain. KE [177.48] (23.april.2020) Inspired by: SB Musing  104.133 |
| Or maybe a letter in poetic form? I dunno. I just felt a need to write this. A letter to ... from an icy place This river doesn't flow into the Mississippi. The people here are barely friendly. I owe you an apology. The anger wells up within me, overflows and those downriver brave the flood or get washed away. Once, there was a lake here plugged by ice. When the dam broke it took all the dirt with it, scraped the scablands bare. Montana's loss became Oregon's gains. Washington still feels the pain. The Palouse turns green in between. Not everything is zero-sum, or black and white or even I'm wrong, You're right. I'd prefer win-win. But an apology may not be enough to cross this gulf. My angry sails catch sulfuric breezes. No one needs more acid in their life. I may have to wait until I figure this out by looking within. I'll give you a shout once I know. No, the folks who live along the lungs of America: the Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Ohio, they know. All kindness flows with the mud and sand and silt (but not my anger, shame and guilt) into the bosom of Mississippi. KE [177.46] (22.april.2020) |
| On the Clark Fork of the Columbia River Back-clad kayakers wrapped in rainbow- colored kayaks sit in the curl of the wave, riding a flow that caresses the willows never again to pass this way. Fly-fisherman wade in cold-dark shallows, luring fish hidden behind big rocks; patient herons hunt for minnows; hungry ospreys dive for bass, careful to not be swept away. This river completes its mission today and every day. Nothing gets in its way. KE [177.45] (21.april.2020) 104.117 |
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