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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 |
| Our Beloved Country we suffer the old the young those who have hurt others their wounded victims when will we forgive their sins our sins how soon will what drives us apart bring us together in the end the father of the murdered son the father of the killer meet in grief if they can forgive ... when will we ask for forgiveness when will we embrace KE [177.21] (6.april.2020) "Cry, The Beloved Country" by Alan Paton. |
| This Death of Dreams For Mark and Leslie The letter sits where she left it. One word, just one word screaming in red: INFERTILE She will never look at it again. She strokes the fur purring at her side and wonders how and why. How will she tell him about this death of dreams, he who always wanted one of each or two ... it never mattered. Will he move on to another now? Will her trembling body remain untouched. He knows his boys and girls can swim. He's launched his million mini-me's time and time again. But that letter sitting on her desk ... one word makes his rugged features cry. He tries to imagine a future of nephews and nieces, piles of dog and cat fur. He goes to hold her trembles in his arms. He vows to never let go. KE [177.19] (4.april.2020) |
| Bob Your face stares out from my sister's yearbook: soft eyes, brown hair, a steady look, the way we'll always remember you, fifty years after you crashed and died. I lied to myself that you were beyond me, that time would free me from your grasp. I gasped when I met you thirty years later, blond haired, a skater, not recognizing me, mesmerizing me still. I'm thrilled to have barely known you twice, like snow and ice that melts when touched. If only I could have touched your face. KE [177.18] (3.april.2020) |
| Oval We went round and round never crossing the street on a bike or a tricycle we rode, no one to greet that we didn't already know. Shaped like a kidney bean, we knew who lived where. And where the sidewalk buckled we walked with care through puddles or snow. It was our kingdom's boundaries: hopscotch chalked, grass freshly mown, where under trees we talked about crayons, said hello to Queenie, Judy's dog, her older sisters, her working parents, all the missus and misters and the occasional crow ... ... who knew where we lived. © Kåre Enga [177.16] (2.april.2020) 104.021 Note: xaxae, xbxbe, xcxce,xdxde. Written for the April 2nd Dew Drop Inn prompt: draw (in words) a map of where you live now or lived as a child. |
| Unnamed Boy in Memento Park The young boy stood there among the others, Lenin on the left, Red Star on the right, not quite forgotten, not quite lamented, just put away. He remembered the day when his creator released him from where he was hiding deep in the stone and the years of standing silently proud as wreaths garnished his feet and garlands of flowers filled untiring arms. He missed their sweet fragrance and the shouts of glee from those thousands, who marching, saluted his gay array. Then one night they carried him away, not to bury him as some great hero, not to spit upon him in disgust, just to place him here among those who were greater, to gather moss or rust. He lets cold rain cleanse his face of dark thoughts as he sees the old lady with the umbrella, she who still searches for something lost. Will she remember and whisper his name. Kare Enga [177.13] (31.mars.2020) Note: Memento park is outside BudaPest. It is the resting place for statues that are no longer politically correct. 104.014 |
| Explaining 1969 And that’s the way we did it back then, the way we did it way back when when boys were boys and men were men and wars would choose the victors. Our mothers would weep and girls would cry all that weeping, all those sighs as some would return and some would die and wars would choose the victors. Yes, war would sort the grain from the chaff ground the grain and burn the chaff. Yet still you ask me, "how can you laugh?" But that’s the way we did it back then. © Kåre Enga [177.10] (29.mars.2020) Note to self: aaxax rhyme, bluesy. 104,004 |
Silly, but it's something that can be worked on, improved or discarded later. It's based on repetition of line and rhythm. The title can be changed. Nineteen crows Nineteen crows in nineteen trees calmly eating burgers. Nineteen crows in nineteen trees: each one cawing, murder! Nineteen hikers hear them call under trees they gather. Nineteen hikers under trees share their chips and laughter. Nineteen crows look down on them, nineteen heads keep nodding, choosing one to swoop on down, tell them: hush your natter. Nineteen hikers go their way. Nineteen crows will watch them. Nineteen hikers sing their songs till the mountains crush them. Nineteen crows in nineteen trees all exclaim, "so gruesome!" Fattened crows in nineteen trees roost in twilight's bosom. K. E. [177.7] (24.mars.2020) 103.970 |
| Nineteen crows caw: "It's covid not corvid." Watching us die ... what do they know? K.E. (22.03.2020) [177.3] Silly but it could become something when it grows up. If not I could give it a title ... perhaps "On the wash line". |
| Eight layers for Rosemary Sinniger Eight layers await her, one for each decade, topped by one candle for this gift of life that never has wavered faced with tribulations. She basks in its glow before coming night. In this twilight the sweetness of evening lingers between layers, this passage of time. No one knows when life will cast its last light; instead, inhale its fragrance of aged wine. Paradigms shift from what remains to be done to fond memories of what's been accomplished, what struggles well-fought, vanquished, overcome. Cakes await for their candles to be snuffed. Savor them as you weep at their passing, with each morsel know their beauty was enough. Kåre Enga (13.march.2020) It wanted to be a sonnet: xaxa, xbxb, cxc, dxd Original: Eight layers for Rosemary Sinniger Eight layers await her, one for each decade, topped by one candle for the gift of life that never wavered faced with tribulations. She basks in its glow before coming night. In this twilight the sweetness of evening lingers between layers, this passage of time. No one knows when life will cast its last light; instead, inhale the fragrance of aged wine. Paradigms shift from what remains to be done to fond memories of what's been accomplished, what struggles well-fought, vanquished, overcome. Cakes await for their candles to be snuffed. Savor them as you weep at their passing, with each morsel know that this life was enough. Kåre Enga (13.march.2020) It wanted to be a sonnet: xaxa, xbxb, cxc, dxd |
| "No touching me, no touching you" This pandemic panic. Touching me, touching you. This insane influenza reaching out, touching you. Wash your hands, but do not touch me. Hands, touching hands, spread the flu to me and then to you. Want me to make you ill? Hold me tight. Kiss me one last time! Death comes tonight. Until this passes, blow me kisses from afar. No hands touching hands, I miss you. No reaching out, I miss you. no touching me, no touching you. © Kåre Enga (6.mars.2020) My quick response after listening to Neil Diamond sing "Sweet Caroline" (1971). The song included these words: Hands, touching hands Reaching out, touching me, touching you Yes, great song, known by millions, but not exactly good advice at the moment. 103,886 |
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