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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 |
| We abide last hug, last handshake —don't call again— the message clear or muddled separation for a day, a month —forever— time never cares who cruel it treats us we abide in our hidden recesses until it's safe to come out again to say hello (albeit timid) to the world that has left us behind. © Kåre Enga [177.168] (30.juli.2020) Prompt: As The Daily Poem closes for another while, write about an ending, closing or goodbye. For:
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| Ingrid Fossensdatter she swishes her tail as if to summon a troll, her hovel hidden behind rock scree and waterfall, a handsome hulder if she must say so herself. it's been awhile and she's getting lonely, someone to share a night-long conversation, a cup of catmint tea, maybe her bed. she'd prefer a lad but no one has asked her to watch his charcoal overnight. no one has offered gifts in return perhaps she's become a myth, but she hides her tail when she goes to town. they think her kind's unwashed. she lives under a waterfall to cleanse herself. oh, to dance by starlight, tail twirling, her long skirt swirling, a diva or a dancing queen oh, to be seventeen — like a century ago. © Kåre Enga [177.167] (30.juli.2020) (30 lines) Since today’s winning poem has roots in Greek myth, write a poem inspired by a myth or fairytale.
A link re 'hulder' https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hulder |
| Book, wine and blinkers Ancient, ugly ... maybe ... hoary, hairy, hooked for sure. Call me Bundt-cake ... Baby ... but never your whore. © Kåre Enga [177.166] (31.juli.2020) (4 lines: 6/7/6/5 and abab) For:
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| From Dawn till Dust And Dawn lit the fields: green and breezy. And birds woke up and the foxes searched along the verge of the road where it cut through the forest until folks started milling about the town as the birds went silent and foxes went back home. And the day grew long and shimmered in the heat as wheat slowly ripened into gold and all this while the red-wing blackbird scolded those who dared to walk too close to its nest in the cattails while the foxes slept curled up in cool dens. And the evening beckoned and vesper bells rang and the sunset ... didn't come. And the day grew hotter and the foxes woke up and the birds were puzzled and stayed on their nests and the people looked to the baking skies for relief. Till one preacher said, What hath God wrought! And the foxes trembled and the birds quivered and the people were frightened as the temperature rose and night didn't come and the stars remained hidden and the moon was nowhere to be seen. As if Noon lit the fields: hot and silent, all life afraid of the glowing Sun and none noticed the wind that was rising until it darkened the skies with its golden red dust. Not by water would the world be cleansed again. And the Sun didn't set for a month ... till those deep in their holes heard the thunder and came out to a darkened sky, as the dust turned to mud. And the foxes survived and the blackbird too but humanity was mostly done. © Kåre Enga [177.163] (28.juli.2020) A prose poem where line count doesn't really matter much while repetitions and rhythm (lots of xx/) does. About 260 words in 6 stanzas of the 'same' length, about 323 syllables: 55/54/53/55/53/53. Prompt: Write a poem that you could feasibly label as being in the Horror genre. For:
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| Saint Andrew's Parlor ebony blues woven matrix of my muse atrous mix of charcoal, blood and ash inked in tattoos © Kåre Enga [177.164] (28.juli.2020) (4 lines: 4/7/9/4) Prompt: atrous (coal-black) For:
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| Contestant Running towards the line in the sand no time at hand to ask whether to cross it, the cost of quitting more than he can cope with today as he lopes but—then to his dismay— stumbles. Words are tossed and pages crumbled, lost to the other side where critics gather the balderdash and quickly decide— it's trash. © Kåre Enga [177.162] (28.juli.2020) (20 lines) irregular line length with rhyme. Prompt: On the subject of time - write about something with a deadline.
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| The dying leaf blinded by the light of a world multi-colored, a time to rejoice the hanging on the letting go now free to fly at last to know the final soar and the chanteuse warbling of my flight in her wavering voice © Kåre Enga [177.158] (27.juli.2020) (9 lines) (to be worked on: "La feuille mourante" -aveuglé par la vue-du monde en couleur, un temps pour se réjouir-l'accrocher-le lâcher prise-libre de voler-enfin savoir-la montée en flèche finale-et la chanteuse gazouillant de mon vol-dans sa voix vacillante 177.158F) PROMPT Write a poem about Autumn from the viewpoint of the last leaf on the tree. For:
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| Priscilla's dog days recipe Four ways to embellish hot dogs: onions, mustard, relish, ketchup... before my dachshund snatches it! © Kåre Enga [177.157] (26.juli.2020) EMBELLISH (3 lines 8/8/8) For:
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| Le monde gris Shades of grey wrap Montreal, as winter drains all color from Grace's thoughts. To be anybody or everybody yet nobody, not black or white, just grey. She'd shortened her name to G. added Raymond, to honor her cat. Got a credit card in that name. She liked it. So anonymous, eponymous, perfect. G. Raymond lives! Grace hugged her new identity, to celebrate, hurried to Tim Horton's. © Kåre Enga [177.154] (25.juli.2020) (20 lines) **PROMPT** Assume this name/credit card issue really does have an impact on G. Raymond, whether good or bad. Write either the lament of G. Raymond, or the exaltation of G. Raymond. Your choice. For:
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| Little Virus goes on a trip Little Virus decided to travel. He wanted to see the world. So he hitched a ride on the first plane out and found himself in a delightful place with friendly people who kissed and hugged and ran about. He invited his friends to join him. And they all came to visit and had a grand time dancing and spreading their own kind of joy. And the mayor welcomed them and the preacher prayed with them but the baker kept his distance and the masked man politely said no. But the Little Virus and his viral friends never said no to a party until the mayor got sick and the baker looked worried and the preacher crossed himself while the masked man shook his head. Then the mayor dropped dead and the preacher got ill and the baker was trembling. Little Virus' friends no longer felt welcome, so they all left as soon as they could. The masked man nodded his head as the parties stopped and the people hid and Little Virus asked, "how come." But the mayor couldn't answer, the preacher was dying and the baker was afraid he would too. The masked man just said, "go." So Little Virus took the hint and packed his luggage and decided to leave but the planes were grounded, the buses and trains weren't running, then when he turned around, the masked man blocked his return. But Little Virus know how to be patient so he sat there waiting with his little thumb out knowing that someone would stop. And the world spun 'round and time went on and the masked man kept vigil as Little Virus stretched and yawned. He was still sitting by the road this dawn. (49 lines, rhythmic free verse) © Kåre Enga [177.156] (25.juli.2020) PROMPT Channel your inner Seuss, Silverstein, Carroll, Dahl (heck, even Wordsworth) and create a poem for children. For:
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