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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/982524
Rated: 18+ · Book · Personal · #982524
Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation.
*Smile*          *Laugh*          *Yawn*

L'aura del campo


'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣


Higgins Street Bridge, April 25th  2009, Missoula, Montana


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*Flower2*V*Flower2* COMMENTS!

On a practical note, in answer to your questions:

Gifts from NOVAcatmando kiyasama alfred booth, wanbli ska ransomme Iowegian Skye

Merit Badge in Reviewing
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For your support and suggestions on my haiku "Lone Poinsettia" which took second place in the contest and will be published.  Thanks for helping make it a winning poem! Merit Badge in Nano Winner
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CONGRATULATIONS on your achievement! *^*Bigsmile*^* Merit Badge in Reviewing
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For help finding a title for my first chapbook.  We're not there yet, but your ideas are always interesting.
Merit Badge in Funny
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Merit Badge in Friendship
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Thanks for being my friend.

Hugz! 

grannym Merit Badge in Appreciation
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For brightening my day with your delightful offerings ~ Thank you so much! *^*Heart*^*


IN MEMORIUM

VerySara

passed away November 12, 2005

Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
More suggested links:

Murv Jacob's rendition of Cherokee Legend: the founding of Tahlequah
These pictures rotate.
 Kåre *Leaf5* Enga
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
The Fish
Previous ... -1- 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... Next
April 6, 2020 at 3:40pm
April 6, 2020 at 3:40pm
#980405
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.

104,040
April 4, 2020 at 2:29pm
April 4, 2020 at 2:29pm
#980228
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)
104.031
April 3, 2020 at 11:10pm
April 3, 2020 at 11:10pm
#980162
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)
April 2, 2020 at 4:20pm
April 2, 2020 at 4:20pm
#980070
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.
March 31, 2020 at 11:41pm
March 31, 2020 at 11:41pm
#979857
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.

March 29, 2020 at 10:44pm
March 29, 2020 at 10:44pm
#979649
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
March 24, 2020 at 5:08pm
March 24, 2020 at 5:08pm
#979067

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
March 22, 2020 at 12:41pm
March 22, 2020 at 12:41pm
#978824
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".

103.960
March 13, 2020 at 6:06pm
March 13, 2020 at 6:06pm
#978028
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
March 6, 2020 at 4:07pm
March 6, 2020 at 4:07pm
#977342
"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.




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