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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 |
| Ovi for Pan June. I welcome cooling moonbeams, inhaling strawberry ice cream that I've sprinkled with ovaltine. Should I leave some for you? I scrape this ceramic bowl clean, it's not that I mean to be mean. You lie there absorbed by your dreams and sleep unaware. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.56.a] (15.juni.2023) Version in past tense. Ovi for Pan In June I welcomed cold moonbeams, inhaling strawberry ice cream sprinkled with malted ovaltine. Should I have left some for you? I scraped the ceramic bowl clean; it's not that I meant to be mean. You lay there absorbed by your dreams and slept unaware. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.56.b] (15.juni.2023) |
| Monochrome in indigo all color removed except for blue this nighttime gift of shame you left me towers I cannot climb supplications declined emotions that never set me free here in the city surrounded by millions I shake all alone Kåre Enga [180.55] (8.juni.2023) |
| Impatiens I planted them every summer, an oval of soft pink against a backdrop of sage-green cedar. They mirrored my youthful struggle to be patient — I waited. You never responded — should I have chosen firecrackers, rainbow explosions of color. Kåre Enga [180.54] (7.juni.2023) |
| In Sousse-Massa They climb trees. They eat fruit, s*** and spit the nuts, that we collect, that we press into argan oil put on your face. Rake the ground then comb your hair. No woman's an atoll when goats must be tended; no man's a reef where women tend to them. Kåre Enga [180.48] (29.mai.2023) 8 lines, ~53 words |
| I would walk away. I would say little. Nothing if I could. Don't want your crumbs. I'm not so dumb. I'm not your chum. Stultify, nullify, justify, petrify. Good guy? Bad guy? Bye-bye! Should I stay? No! Run, run, run. |
| In their worlds of morality, venality, normality, we dare not show exceptionality or illumine their mediocrity. In perfect worlds of better and best we unbelievers forage for crumbs, along with the rest, yet refuse to invest in their insufferable totality. |
| HERE LIES A QUEER after Amanda Gorman That hill we die on will be blood stained with the miscarriage of justice, just us breaking through the silence for those muted by dogmatic bigotry, that gift from generations bound by hatred and fear. Hear us when we say queer. Hear us when we shout queer. Bury us with the epitaph HERE LIES A QUEER. We will clap back from the graveyard. Kåre Enga [180.44] (25.mai.2023) 10 lines free verse "Poet Amanda Gorman spoke out after her poem The Hill We Climb, which she recited at President Joe Biden's presidential inauguration, was removed from an elementary school in Miami-Dade County, Florida." https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/author-of-poem-removed-from-florida-school-fir... |
| Write me a political limerick? Sure. Lord Caoimhín O'Lim'rick's quite lucky. Saint Ronnie O'Disney's just duckie. They went to Time's Square where sat in despair, Don Juannie the twice loser suck-me. What about Joe Biden? Joe's not bad, just cheugy. |
| Breakfast's at Eight Spill beans into a bowl, then let them soak. Wash the rice, remove the stones. Chop cilantro, carrots, onions, peppers, add a yolk. Cook when daybreak dawns. Don't eat alone. Invite your family, friends and folk. Puts flesh on bones. Kåre Enga [180.38] (19.mai.2023) |
| Elegy in sepia Gone, all gone to the gutless and greedy, no need to reach out to the wandering sky once roots are wrenched from paradise. Even the color, reduced to stark black and white, now fades to sepia. Kåre Enga [180.37] (19.mai.2023) |
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