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 LV COMMENTS!
passed away November 12, 2005
Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
These pictures rotate.
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
|June 0 ... 2021 till June 0 2022.
I will need to keep my prompts in this ancient p-log for
52 of them in 52 weeks. Catch-ups allowed. A challenge, not a contest per se.
1. "PPC#1 Ursa-June "
2. "PPC#2 When a moment lasts a lifetime "
|It's time to say goodbye
Soon Lamps will cast their Light announcing that it's time to head Home. Night gathers in the East and races to catch up with the run-away Sun.
We talk until we cannot see the white Thread from the Dark.
It's time to say goodbye until the Morn.
It's time to say goodbye until the Morn.
Will Dawn ever come? Sit with me as the Moon rises to cast our Shadows, glows to show us the right Way forward... if not home.
Chill enters my bones but the warmth of your Embrace will linger after you're gone. Go now before the Nightengale is hushed by the Owl. Go before the Lamplights gutter, before our Joy is crushed by those who envy us. Go, and travel safe. Take this candle, to guide you to the coming Dawn.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.127] (27.mai.2021)
There's a certain symmetry in golden wisps that criss cross the northwest, the flag waving goodbye to the day, the clouds, the rains, goodbye to the river racing towards the sunset.
As Twilight gathers her skirts and Night his lanterns. Goodbye.
As air cools and summer sky darkens. Goodbye.
As the golden globe seeks other venues, bringing them dawn. Goodbye.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.126.s] (26.mai.2021)
Note: sunset comes late in Western Montana.
Together we fell from a cloud to wet the mountain peak where we parted ways. We slid downwards, each to our own destiny, off to different seas. But drops do not control their fortune or fate. In a cafe far away we sit in bottles at the back of a shelf. Apart together, bound not free. Until we're both sold to travel side-by-side. With our benefactors' kiss, united once more.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.125.s] (25.mai.2021)
|Butterfly Herbs on the 22nd of May
the clatter of dishes
soft music harmonizes with hushed chatter
under tin ceilings
older than the living who
after a year stuck in their caves venture forth
to sit as always
among bins of coffee and jars of tea
all seems normal
even the snowflakes in the early morning
gracing the hills
adorning the trees
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.122] (22.mai.2021)
12 lines. Butterfly Herbs is a cafe in Missoula, Montana.
|So much promise
So much promise
but you slink away to the west
not even bothering to tell the flag that now hangs limp.
We would wave
if we had a glimpse of a glow.
Another sunset is never promised
and skies darken as we wonder about dawn.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.124.s] (24.mai.2021)
|Declaration of The Bab
Was it raining that night
when the Heavens opened up and spoke.
Did the fragrance of flowers
or the songs of nightbirds intrude.
Did it matter.
A moment linked to other moments,
suspended in time,
when ground-dwellers begged
for a message from the Sky.
Did it rain then too.
Not winds nor sunshine ever mattered
to those deaf to mercy,
to those blind to grace,
dumb from whatever rained down upon them
from threatening clouds.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.123.s] (22.mai.2021)
Declaration of The Bab, 22 May 1844, 2 hours after sunset
|Answers come at dawn
Grey over grey.
I cannot see the mountains clearly at the hour of the dying of the day.
Oh, to have new eyes!
New ears to hear the river's wailing.
New nose to smell the heat of spices.
New heart to thank young Bri for gifts of food.
What good can come to moaning at the edge of night when the answer comes at dawn.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.98.s] (20.mai.2021)
|Age of Mayflies
Time creeps as light grey deepens to charcoal
no embers glowing in the sky
to mark the passing of another Age of Mayflies,
their lives as short as ours,
mere hours between the rising and setting
of an earthbound passage,
as our last cries echo that moment we burst forth
and filled our lungs with breath.
Now we empty them to seek the tomb, eternal womb,
to mark the passing through the night
into another realm of light.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.121] (19.mai.2021)
|Even the boxes...
No sunset worthy of leaving my bed.
An hour later a faint blue glow in the northwest teases me.
I know its game.
It ducks behind the mountains to reappear at some ungodly morning hour.
As if I care.
This day of nothing's followed by more nothingness.
Even the boxes I gather to store my memories remain unfilled.
Even the boxes...
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.120] (18.mai.2021)