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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 |
| Write your entry inspired by the word “nurture.” What does it mean to nurture something or someone? How were you nurtured growing up, how are you currently nurtured, and how do you nurture others? Multiple questions in one. "Nurture your Nature" was a blog I still have... although I haven't posted in 7 years. I could. I should. I shall. Nurturing someone isn't quite as easy as it sounds. Humans of all ages, other sentient beings as well and nature in general all have different needs. So easy to kill plants by over-watering, for example, or forgetting that they DO need a slurp now and then. Cats and dogs are different. Dogs want to be part of the family; you're boss. Cats want servants. And humans... tricky. Most need to be gently watered regularly... and they don't survive without "family". I took someone in once. Worked at getting him ID. Managed to teach him how to drive. I took in refugees from many countries or many years. I had parties for my neighborhood, my friends, my co-workers... Later someone took me in when I had no place to stay. I could write books about this. Here in New Blogville I read blogs. I comment. I try to connect. But... everyone has a different definition of what being supportive and nurturing means. Nurturing isn't everyone's strong point. Which brings up family. I was fed and watered. I was looked after. I was told to not speak. My friends were 'chosen' for me. I became very shy and withdrawn. I couldn't see properly and I was very small and malnourished. Yes, I was loved but I wasn't properly taught about a lot of things. By age 13, I felt as if I were born into the wrong family. I didn't thrive in the community either. I look back and wonder what I could have done differently. But why beat myself up? These days I read and write. I travel and meet people around the world from myriad cultures. Today I went to market and had a good time. Stopped to smell flowers on my walk. Tonight vanilla ice-cream with Vernor's ginger ale. It's a small pleasure. So was reading in the bathtub last night. So is sitting here in silence. There are may small ways in which I can nurture myself. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: An hour there and back, but I sent money to a friend (I dread it). Wrote two flash fictions, one for a contest prompt. I'm learning. I remembered to take my pill. Fortunately, I have a doctor's appointment next week to talk about my health. BLOGVILLE: stuffed animal, cat, cat, cat, kitty, nightingale (burp); dog, bear, mantis... IMAGES: fruit trees in bloom (relatives of the apple), green lawns, art and crafts and cookies and coffee and... the markets were packed on a very pleasant warm day. Bare business streets without trees. Bare parking lots. Egg salad with salmon cream-cheese. Battle plan His battle plan was forgotten between one beer bottle and the next. — Gimme another — Cole been in the navy and knew how to walk the decks, knew his starboard from aft, knew a bowline from a stopper knot, but couldn't untangle himself from daily family drama before his sea legs gave out. He drank. A lot. Liquor was quicker but a Bud was best. He considered Bud his best buddy. — Gimme another — The bartender answered softly — eat some of these chips and rest a bit. I'll be back with a Bud after the game — While watching Cole remembered he had to come up with a battle plan. His two sons wanted to surf. His wife and daughter pleaded to go to Vegas. Either would cost and a stay-cation wasn't an option. While his sons bickered over which beach had the best scene, the women whined over which casino was the new hot spot. He felt trapped by their arguments. Every night the same-old-shit. It wasn't right! The game went into overtime. And then another. Neither team seemed to want to win. Cole smiled and caught the eye of the bartender. He'd come up with the answer. — that Bud? — Cole felt like King Solomon or was that Old King Cole? He'd split the money and send them-all away and call for his fiddledeedee. They could do whatever they wanted. He'd get to visit his very best friend every day. At home. Maybe even get to sail. Alone. © Kåre Enga (11.mai.2019) [176/79]
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| PROMPT May 11th: Write your entry today from the perspective of an animal. You could choose a pet, a lioness on the hunt, a rhino being pursued by poachers, or any other animal of your choice. I'm small so you didn't see me. Was quiet so you ignored me as I munched. I didn't mean to upset your lunch. My life's so short. But there you were. Big and bullyish. Only thinking about yourself. You wanted it all and left us nothing. Most of my kin were slaughtered, drowned or steamed to death. We-others must seek a new home. But we don't need much. A few crumbs. A dark corner of a box. You say you could live without us. But our offspring lead to generations, even if yours do not. My name's Tenebrio, but you can call me Darkling. I survive in the dryness of your dust. I might make this into a poem or something so I have to date it (10.maio.2019) and catalog it [176.77]. It's based on my experience opening a box of spaghetti and finding mealworms. I cleaned it as best I could and made spaghetti with cream of asparagus (kinda like an alfredo sauce). The other half is in a sealed container. Mealworms are edible by-the-way. I tried dried ones once in Costa Rica. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: sat with my friend to go over a couple flash-fictions. He writes essays and short stories. I don't know how to write a story even when I write a good one. I don't know what I'm doing. That said, flash-fiction is short to very short. Since I write short poems I do understand the economy of words and images that both demand. NEW BLOGVILLE: Did my rounds. Short entries today. Only so many ways to sing Happy Birthday! IMAGES: bacon and eggs (not mine, Travis'); alpenglow on the mountains at 20:48. The days are long. It will stay this way until the end of July. It was warm! 20ºc. Very pleasant with a breeze. Short-sleeve weather around these parts. Flash-fiction prompt was: "Tell me the truth". I will never be forgiven "I'm the biggest, the best." My childhood friend in Queens always boasted about himself but I had seen tears flow when he was mocked. He tried to hide them from everyone else. He mocked them in return. Snowballs were returned with iceballs in the '50s, in Summer a rock with a bigger rock. He had to win, at whatever cost. When he lost he just lied, "I'm the best". And go off in a huff. In school he did whatever he wanted. Grades didn't matter. He was destined to be King he told me although he said he'd settle for the crown and the money. Life was all about fun. And taking shame or blame was not the name of the game he played. He made the rules. We used to talk about love. I mentioned my latest crush; he looked into a mirror. I always wondered whether he was a virgin. He'd let no one touch him. "Germs!", he'd exclaim. I felt abandoned when he went off to college. I was just a powerless pawn and he wanted to be surrounded by knights and ladies-in-waiting, as long as the knights were knaves as well and the ladies weren't too lady-like. He suffered no fools other than himself. But that seemed to be centuries ago in some fairy-tale until I saw him surrounded by his court. I didn't recognize any of them but he hadn't changed. The spotlight followed him like his shadow, cast long, vengeful, dark. Hoping he wouldn't see me, I hid. Like I did after I first dared to ask him, "Tell me the truth". I'll never forget his laugh. I'll never forget the gleam in his eyes as he said, "I never tell a lie". And in his mind, he never has since. © Kåre Enga (10.may.2019) [176.76]
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| Well let's talk about someone (Sum1?) who is constantly getting his wires crossed or uncrossed or maybe it's chip and programs and what-not. The technology is so beyond me. And let's not forget to mention those road trips of wine and roses (or was that food poisoning?) as he traipses across the country four wheels on the ground and get-out-of-his-way. He knows I-70, I-80, I-90 and how to rest at home (occasionally). He's even known to take a plane! To places like Montrose (does it really REALLY exist?) I'll take his word. No one goes through airport after airport just to make it up. If I had a car... I could be like him! Well, I couldn't straighten out clients heads after they've... we won't go there... And wires and electronics and systems confuse me. So, Happy Birthday to Someone (Sum1).  ACCOMPLISHMENTS: wrote, walked across the bridge to a reading. IMAGES: warm sun, cold breeze; scent of lilacs in bloom; red sand in the sidewalk cracks; 20 gathered to hear Amy read her prose poems; shrimp with remoulade and cocktail sauce; lemon cookie; low temp (96.9º). NEW BLOGVILLE: Just slogging my way around the small bloggy town. Seems to be wet most places. Could it be Spring? Thor - the other brother I am the good boy. Always the one they never worry about. Smash. Game over. Watch the glass! Darryl sure knows how to dunk. He just doesn't know how to control his body. All 300 pounds of it. And he has a bad habit of hanging onto the rim. Our parents never allow him to play barefoot. Too much glass. They never talk about the price of shoes or how he wears them out. At least he doesn't lose them like his big brother Brad who's allergic to footwear... and clothes in general. I am the other brother. No one talks about me. I keep Brad in line best I can. I just stay out of the way of Darryl and later clean up the mess. Sports run in our family. Literally. Grandma runs the marathon and grandpa would if he weren't dead. Dad rows his boat and Mother just floats with a piña colada in a frosted glass... when she isn't doing laps. Brad likes to wrestle. Darryl too when he doesn't have a b-ball game. I play the flute. Quietly. After I've finished my archery lessons. No one watches. I'm not very good. But at least I don't break anything and I know how to keep my clothes on! My brothers call me Robinhood. I'm so NOT. I've been far too ugly for far too long. By-the-way, I'm Thor. I want you to know that everyone always gets my story all upside down. I was the good boy. The one they never worried about. Until it all went wrong. © Kåre Enga (9.mayo.2019) [176.75] 101.695 |
| So far away Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore It would be so fine to see your face at my door Doesn't help to know you're just time away A very painful topic. I have lived here 10 years. I feel safe here but these mountains aren't my home. And the places I travel just remind me that I don't have a "home". I left for good years ago thinking I'd be gone for two weeks. It still hurts deeply. I left a lot of baggage but I also left those I loved the most. My journal is written to one of them. Most of them are still there. I was the one who left. Do they miss me? Perhaps some do. I'm sure of that. I miss the good times but cannot reminisce without the reasons for leaving intruding and destroying that joy. I just try to block out that "time before". When... if... I move from here I'd like to move back to the prairie. I felt freer there, more in tune with the world. But 15 years ago when I did go back it was a disaster and I cannot turn the clock back 40 years. That place is gone and what has replaced it would be alien. Still I dream of Kansas and wheat and Iowa and corn fields. But I wouldn't go back to where I was raised. Yes, it was a beautiful place, but treacherous... one I don't mention often... it was never safe. I still have family there and probably friends if I would just let them get to know me again. I'm not sure it's worth the risk. One more song about moving along the highway Can't say much of anything that's new If I could only work this life out my way I'd rather spend it being close to you So pursuant to yesterday's prompt: I'd emigrate to Mars if I could take my loved ones with me. The lyrics to "So Far Away" are Carol King's... from another time and place. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: Only went grocery shopping. No great sales this week. Chatted with friends. I needed to. I spent the day at home. Read lots of blogs. Wrote another flash fiction. IMAGES: The end of apricot blossom time, wind, streaks of rain, hum of the city; taste of tuna-farfalle-cream-of-celery and later vanilla ice cream with Dr. Pepper. NEW BLOGVILLE: I read how many folks are less than thrilled to leave their comfort zones. Does travel, new people, new experiences frighten them? Everyone's reasons are so personal. But leaving one's comfort zone is the only way to grow. I sincerely wish everyone the best. From ash to ashes Thoom administered colloidal silver. Barely a drop. Made Sarah take one garlic pill, waited for results. It was one of those lazy days, puffy clouds and humid. We all kept to the shade, except for Lily. Lily wouldn't venture out from the ice-house. None of us wanted to move but it was important to check on Sarah every hour. Her fever wasn't going down and she was turning grey. Neither were good signs. We sat around The Shallot. The fan was cranking. The ice block was melting. Thoom made sure we all sipped our lemonade. She had made a special batch with mint and chamomile. She knew we needed to keep calm and we knew that she knew. When Lily visited that evening with fresh chilled blood we almost went into a frenzy. But Thoom held up one finger and politely poured each of us a small glass. Lily sat with Sarah, encouraging her to take a few sips. My appetite's off, she croaked. Sarah was notorious for her unquenchable thirst. Not a good sign. Maybe we should check to see if there's some other problem? What hurts? When did this happen? Where? Thoom listened to the inquisition, mentally taking notes. She approached Sarah and began to search. Arms okay, Legs okay. Turn the other way guys, I need to get personal. Finally she checked Sarah's hair. Sarah was proud of her luxurious hair. Did you get your hair caught in something? Ah... It’s worse than I thought. Thoom asked for tweezers and removed a splinter. Ash! Lily exclaimed in horror. We shuddered. Wood can kill us. Ash was the worse. But Sarah, undauntable Sarah, just groaned. Does this mean I'll have to skip the hoedown tomorrow? Thoom smiled sweetly but Lily flashed her one of those looks. © Kåre Enga (8.mai.2019) [176.74]
If I write a flash fiction every day I will learn how to write one!  101.671 |
| In the future, if space travel became possible, would you want to go? What would most influence your decision whether or not to leave Earth? I'm at a point in my life that I would most likely not live to the end of the journey. I would have to be inspired and hopeful that my "sacrifice" would bring about some good. If I were younger... I'd like the sense of adventure, but I probably wouldn't go. I'm not much of a risk taker. But I can think of scenarios that would impel me. Certainly... no future here or certain death would be one factor. Going with someone I love might convince me as well. The moons of Jupiter and Saturn even Pluto and Charon entice me. I'm all for investigation, all for exploring space, but I do wish we were more mature as a specie. So, I hope the opportunity isn't too soon. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: I went to the library and shared a flash-fiction I wrote today as it's my mother's birthday. She's... ancient. Fortunately the piece is mostly fiction. She does want to outlive the queen though. See below. There were 10 of us. I listened to others... shared a couple points, but mostly just listened. IMAGES: wind, a splatter of rain, fragrance of a white-blossomed shrub wafting my way. Wet streets glistening in the lights. NEW BLOGVILLE: I've been getting 3 to 5 comments which is better than before this "challenge". Not like the old days though. It may be that people don't have time. Some folks are super busy; I'm amazed by their energy. A kid'll eat ivy too What could we say. Our mother was going to have a birthday whether we liked it or not. She had vowed to outlive the queen and god-forbid she just might be right. She wanted to learn the purpose of life. We were getting old ourselves, ready for an inheritance while we could still enjoy it. She obviously didn't care. Her sympathy oozed every time she looked at us and tsk-tsked, "poor dears". Of course, we went to her party. And the one the next year and the next. That was before she had a stroke. She lingered. After a month, still lingered. "Never give up" she would twinkle. We silently groaned. One Tuesday the hospice called and we gathered to bid her goodbye. Two weeks later she was back home calling her younger friends (they were younger than us!) and making plans to go on cruise. She didn't invite us. "Why would I want to hang out with those old fuddy-duddies" she told one of her grand-kids, who gleefully told us. "I figured it out!" she declared before she left. Life? Purpose? What she figured out she never did tell us. She just got on the boat and waved. She eventually did die of course. Almost outlived the queen! We dressed in black to spite her. Wept on cue. Looked bereaved when we were supposed to. A week later, we sat in shock with her lawyer. "That last cruise? She paid for all her friends too. Put it on her credit card. If anything her estate owes them!" Our dreams of jet-setting dashed, we decided to set up a go-fund-me page. Included a video of mother-dearest at her last birthday party swinging around her walker singing, 'Mairzydoats n dozeydoats". We hope it goes viral. © Kåre Enga (7.maio.2019) [176.73] 101.561 |
| Art took lithium to maintain a balance so he could work. It made him less flexible and eventually killed him, I'm sure. But that's what meds do. I prefer not to take drugs. I embrace my craziness and make sure it doesn't get in the way. But then, I don't work. Oh... you meant creative art? Yes, ART is creative, whether subjective or objective. For me, I think of myself as a writer because I write. I can't sculpt. I shouldn't sing. I'm just who I am ... stuck with a Muse who thinks HE's some kind of artist. I appreciate most artist's art, even when I don't understand it or don't think it's all that great. Every artist needs encouragement in my opinion and since I'm not a sculptor nor a singer I admire what they do. And realize that most of them can't do what I do because my Muse is speaking to ME and not them. So much for talent...  Whether you enjoy someone's art is subjective. Whether it has good technique, inspires, motivates, et cetera is more objective. Artists are better at measuring good art, but the general public knows what it likes and that subjectivity decides what art is great. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: Little. Wrote a flash fiction. Took me about 15 minutes because I had to post it by 11 pm WDC time. 9 pm here. IMAGES: Taste of chili, taste of meatloaf, taste of apple pie. It was a tasty day. NEW BLOGVILLE: Just leaving comments everywhere. Don't mind the mess. Advice can easily be swept away with the trash. "Annie, go get your rod" She'd heard that all her life. Ann stood there in the cold water. Looked down the river at others standing off-shore. Cast her rod. Reeled it slowly in. Cast it again. The day was cloudy, just like yesterday, just like they predicted for tomorrow. She had plenty of time to think. That was the problem. Not the rod and reel, not the wary fish. She tried to meditate by breathing in the smell of spring runoff before the big melt, breathing out the stench of winter. The line became taut. Just a snag she thought. And slowly let the water work it loose. She would love to let everything go. November's heartbreak had led to December's dilemma. Should she have moved? No, this was her home. The river ran through it. The river had always ran through it. This time the tug on the line was no snag. She reeled in a small brown trout. Too small. She unhooked it, threw it back. Fly-fishing was what had keep her sane through her marriage, would keep her sane through the divorce. She pulled back her rod, let another one fly. There were always more fish to catch and release. With that thought, the sun came out. © Kåre Enga [176.73] (6.maio.2019) |
| "Annie, go get your rod" She'd heard that all her life. Ann stood there in the cold water. Looked down the river at others standing off-shore. Cast her rod. Reeled it slowly in. Cast it again. The day was cloudy, just like yesterday, just like they predicted for tomorrow. She had plenty of time to think. That was the problem. Not the rod and reel, not the wary fish. She tried to meditate by breathing in the smell of spring runoff before the big melt, breathing out the stench of winter. The line became taut. Just a snag she thought. And slowly let the water work it loose. She would love to let everything go. November's heartbreak had led to December's dilemma. Should she have moved? No, this was her home. The river ran through it. The river had always ran through it. This time the tug on the line was no snag. She reeled in a small brown trout. Too small. She unhooked it, threw it back. Fly-fishing was what had keep her sane through her marriage, would keep her sane through the divorce. She pulled back her rod, let another one fly. There were always more fish to catch and release. With that thought, the sun came out. © Kåre Enga [176.73] (6.maio.2019) |
| Crafty... funny that thát word was used! In many ways, a chapbook is a craft. I've done them in the past. Some have turned out well. One of my goals is making a quarter page chapbook of poetry, a chapbooklet let's say. I want to incorporate some art in it, but easier said than done. MY CRAFT Well, that was fun! I use to play with color, size, fonts, emoticons... in this blog. Not now.  Writing craft: what are the options? Gimme options! I demand options!!! *don't-hurt-me* (they don't have an emoticon for that... yet). 1. I continue to read. That may sound banal but it really helps. I've finished off some fantasy novels and will next read a book of poetry. Any reading helps. What could I work on? Read more? Sit down with a book on geology? That's helped in the past... really... plate tectonics is great for erotic poetry. Perhaps pick a subject I know little about. 2. Reread some books on poetry and the craft of poetry. Going over the basics reminds me that I don't always work on them. And there is so much to learn on the second, third, fourth rereading. 3. I have made editing and submission goals. That's key to being published. Who knows what I'll learn if I take the risk and share my work with a publisher? An uncaring public means the poem hasn't found its audience... and a publisher may be able to help. Of course, many poems will never find an audience... people aren't stupid. 4. Tightening up language; spending time with a thesaurus and rhyming tool; letting the poem breathe. Short stories ... novels ... what makes it engaging? Why does this one work and not the other. In other words: I need to continue to workshop my work. I need new eyes to see these things and mine are old. 5. I'm going to read some blogs for ideas... ACCOMPLISHMENTS: I told WakeUpAndLive️~🚬🚭2024  that I would wash my dishes. And I did ... and cleaned out the sink and stove top as well. Surfaces tend to collect things wherever I am.  I went for a walk to the grocery store and back along the river. IMAGES: Apricots in bloom, chatter over the fenced in yard, golden blaze of forsythia, purple-white pansies, black-dog / tan-squirrel (tree refuge), Cleo-the-kitty begging for a rub — 3 year old helping shop — dandelion puffs, rough log by the bridge, glossy smooth-to-the-touch poplar leaf, grey lichen on purple rock, dog pawprints in the mud, spent catkins on beige sand, flotsam, soft lap of water at the river's edge, purple rose and grey river stones, one big black bird, abandoned multi-colored baby-bootie, sound of "rapids", duck resting, breeze flicking through leaf litter, whizz of bicycle tires, raindrop, limb floating down the south channel, new tree stumps, bird chirp, white hawthorn?, green swords of iris. NEW BLOGVILLE: I've left about 45 comments in the first 5 days. I missed some blogs, but not many. Blogs are so much better than facebook or twitter. It's possible to actually get to know someone. Green Swords of May They have won the battle with ice and snow, determined to ride out this storm till summer, swords pointed to the sky. How dare it defy them? The grey clouds must part! The Sun must come back! And stalks must raise blooms of purple, blue and yellow to bask in it's rays, to beckon me and the bee to visit. I bow down to each iris, stoop to inhale each one's fragrance, quickly am reminded about the bee. © Kåre Enga (6.maio.2019) [176.72] 101.536 |
| It is best to say that I accomplished much this last week and accomplished nothing new. LAST WEEK: read, write, edit, see friends, communicate with friends, eat, wash the dishes, shower, take pills, check blood pressure. NEXT WEEK: read, write, edit, see friends, communicate with friends, eat, wash the dishes, shower, take pills, check blood pressure. As long as I do this I have worked on objectives that lead to goals. My life doesn't divide itself into 5 work days, a party day, a day of "rest". I realize that this is a common Christian-Western-European-American thing. That isn't me. I have two parts of my life: A. Home. B. Travel. The above is what I do when I am home. I "rest" and slog through my life's chores. When I travel: 1. Where am I? 2. Were am I going? 3. Take pictures of everything. 4. Meet people everywhere. 5. Don't miss the plane/train/bus... And of course, try to remember to write and take my pills every day. Sometimes I do. sometimes I don't. I go home to rest. My town in Montana, of course, has its own rhythm: Season of Smoke, Season of Grey Skies, Student Season; Ghost Season; Play Season. Cold Season; Hot Season. They overlap. The Pleasant Season for me personally? March through June and September-October. May is my favorite month. Just about everywhere. So what does this have to do with a simple question about accomplishments? I could answer but it would be a boring answer. And you would learn nothing about me. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: I got to market. I went to the library and continued working on my journal. I finished Acorna 7. I cooked up the chicken and made biscuits. IMAGES: Walking along the river: smell of hard juniper berries; indigo vinca; new red leaves; soft green fronds; last autumn's shriveled berries; scurrying prairies dogs; wet dog fountain; crunch of gravel; lavender shooting-stars; yellowbells; withered grass; blue plastic trash; yellow biscuit root; sound of traffic on the bridge; semi-grey-cloudy day; shadows; last year's dead brown pine needles (long, rough); white phlox; emergent furry arrowleaf balsamroot; worn-out buttercups; dandelion clumps; smell of crushed sage; horn of train; waxy scaly arborvitae; screech of a child; cool breeze off the river. NEW BLOGVILLE: Kwills joined us and I found MCPhedran's in-and-out. I continue to comment as much as I can. POEM? I'll post one later... maybe. 101.527 |
| I often write down senses. And many of my poems and short stories are sensual. Earlier I recorded this: pen, ink and rose petals; smell of carnations; furry geranium leaf; sound of tango music; orange-yellow double-daffs; sweet taste of goat-cheese. But... now I'm supposed to list hear, smell and feel... outside! 2 minutes outside at Twilight? What if the vampires get me? Tonight is First Friday and the hunting should be good. Earlier, I visited 5 places around the block here. I barely had enough energy to do that; my energy levels come and go. I'll mention this again when I see the doctor but tests always come back "normal". So, my feeble fight with the prompt: I'm going deaf. So: roof exhaust; roar of traffic; hush of traffic; chatter. Inside: sizzle of frying fish. What I can see but cannot hear: flap of the flag; roar of the river; flight of a small bird. My smeller doesn't work well either. When my aunt became old she could only smell burning onions. I'm getting there. Strong smelly foods don't bother me as much as before. So: fresh air. Inside: fish. What I can see but not smell: snow melt in the mountains; a sunset orange and mauve. Feel? The air from the ceiling fan; heat of a pan lid; cold soapy water. I admit this isn't much but it's what I have to offer. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: Put April 3rd and 4th journal entries on-line for future editing. Did get out to Senior Center and later for a short while to see the art exhibits of First Friday. Reading. Cooking. NEW BLOGVILLE: Not all of us are connected to a recorded past. Some of us come from families that don't look back or from families that hide the truth or families that just don't tell stories. Hard prompt. I'm keeping up with my blog reading. I appreciate those who visit me in return. Constellation of Two Otters We bind our bodies to each other, sleep like otters hand-in-hand. It's easy to get lost in this universe, not so easy to search the slime and sands to find you again. I'm not resigned to separation. I hold fast to what time we have. When quakes and quagmires unbalance me and blindness replaces the light, I'll fight to turn back the hands-of-time, remember how we floated off together as if you were forever mine. © Kåre Enga (2.mai.2019) [176.70.zm] |
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