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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 |
| What month am I? This month begins as winter fools us. "Make up your mind." We fuss. Crocuses hide beneath white snow, the sun behind black crows. We take a nap until those days when warm winds bring soft rains and color fills our daily dreams as grassy lawns turn green. Clear skies burst out in brilliant blue and yellow fills our view as dandelions and daffodils cover cool fields and hills. The apricots bloom pink and white. If frosty nights don't bite, we'll harvest their fruits come August before the autumn's dust. We salute the Earth for all she gives that helps all wildlife live. We gather her blooming tulips, then plant new tulip trees. I follow March. What month am I? I bring wet cloudy skies, dance in puddles that welcome May, pick hyacinth bouquets. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.63] (30.april.2021) 24 lines. 8/6 ballad; aabb rhyme (more or less). For:
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| ** Image ID #2247530 Unavailable ** Call us Boss We wear our human costumes daily, but this is who we are. Whether happy faced or gruesome, our ruler wears a crown. We speak in gruff or dulcet tones, no two of us alike, at midnight take our costumes off so we can have some fun. We're all upstanding citizens and thoughtful to a fault. We hang signs on the boardroom door: "Private; members only", then gnash our teeth and lick our gums, begin to laugh, cavort, and joke away until the dawn while stripping flesh from bones. Call us fools — but every Monday we're back to playing tricks. We're the bosses you love to hate. Oh, if you only knew. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.61] (30.april.2021) 20 lines unrhymed 8/6 ballad form. For:
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| Eeyore's birthday glee "I guess we'll be fine, as long as the honey doesn't get watered down. I'll sit on this checkered cloth under an umbrella hoping my friends will let me go home. They won't, of course. So, I'll just get wet holding the corner down." a grey donkey — a soggy picnic lunch set for four. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.56] 5 long lines plus a hokku. Based on 'The Four Seasons of Winnie the Pooh" that hangs over my door. For
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| Old Mother told us You bullied your way south, tearing through the pines and plains of Saskatchewan, a hungry polar bear on the hunt. Then you found a gap in the earth's stony teeth and took a turn west to terrorize us. Old Mother warned long ago: take cover when the east wind blows down the canyon; it brings the death-breath of the north. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.55] (23.april.2021) 8 irregular lines, free verse, 75 syllables. For
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| Cymbeline Why read Shakespeare, we ask. So many other simple straight-forward stories. Why did we choose this one. What were we thinking. We still don't know. I was raised in a fog of snow mist and ice, a gathering of wisps that could not be possessed. I chased rainbows that came out on soft days, locking the hurt in a closet Then sunlight banished the gloom as it had done before and will do again. I would have healed if it weren't for the sunburn of drama coming in the front door, stirring up a tempest exiting to the lot where the hopeless parked with a bottle to drown their depression till sundown quenched their mania. So much confusion. So many stories and characters and utter nonsense. The lies, the lies, the lies. They died one-by-one in the cleansing. Who was king-of-hill, who was the queen-of-evil — no one knew for sure. The quicksand sucked at us all and we got lost in the quagmire. I moved to the desert, hid, snug between mountains. Sighed in relief as I watched the sun set in silence. I prayed for misty days and rainbows. I had left the drama behind. I never bother to read Shakespeare. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.54] (23.april.2021) Prompt: a Shakesperian play. I chose "Cymbeline", a later work that's very entangled with typical tantrums, evil and revenge. I describe my own experiences and views based on surviving homelessness. For:
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| Old saints say... I never asked, "When will I die." I've often wondered, "How shall will I live." I never questioned, "Why do I cry." I often offered, "What can I give." © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.53] (21.april.2021) For
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| Of Nature I hold on to all that matters, feel the joy, the pain. Take what comes as this Age passes, welcome snow and rain. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.52] (21.april.2021) For:
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| Bittersweet I wind around you for support a gentle grasping meant to catch the sunlight, stretching ever upwards to bloom, set fruit for birds that come once winter makes them desperate. Next spring I'll twine around your form that I adored, that I have choked, that lifeless still provides support. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.51] (20.april.2021) For
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A bee's lament No rose blooms yet in this northern clime. No nightengale sings a lullaby. The first mourning cloak has winged its flight. Why should I be forced to act my age? Joy comes by invitation only. It's been a long time since I've been asked. Festivals just mark another year. Are you surprised that I'm still here? © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.49] (19.april.2021) for "Blogging Circle of Friends "  "Day 3074: April 19, 3021 Prompt: Rose, nightingale, butterfly, festival, and joyful."and "Dew Drop Inn" "act your age."in an 8 line form (of ~9 syllables) for "EXPRESS IT IN EIGHT" "surprise, bees" |
| No safe place Nightmares may thrash me tonight, flashing back to other times when I feared I was cornered, madly trying to escape. This time I must punch through. Some lifetime it would be nice — to feel safe, but I'm too tired to run and — there's no such place. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.48] (17.april.2021) For:
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