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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 |
| Stone Wall & Heath for Petra Give us a chance; we'll paint your sorrows six shades of green, a gift of a soft day of mists and rainbows, each bruise healed with moss, each crack fused with a nest for flowers, blue and pink greeting the gull-filled sky. Abandoned corners provide a refuge from wind where woolly sheep snuggle against raw cold. Hear how they bleat, beckoning you to stumble across these fields of rock, clamber over these walls of stone graced with golden gorse. Let your fingers trace the landscape's inscription as the last rays of sunset guide your way. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.241] (26.septembre.2021) 14 lines free verse Sent on a postcard "Stone Wall & Heath, Co Down, © Tom Quinn Kumpf |
| ** Image ID #1983058 Unavailable ** 1. She walks to the graveyard where in Earth's womb she had planted the skulls by April's new moon when all was turning green, protected them through drought and storms; now she goes to her garden to harvest the fulsome fruits of her labor snuggled among tombs and gently plucks one from the ground and caresses the crannies now full of life. Sow and ye shall reap her granny had promised. Now worms and grubs were fattened and ready to eat. She would feast tonight by the light of the full moon and give thanks. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.239] (7.oktober.2021) Revised. Now in "Harvesting the skulls"  ** Image ID #1983250 Unavailable ** Enter the dreams of the waiting crone. Learn her wisdom with each wheezing moan. As woods clothe you against winds that bite, Darkness becomes refuge from fiery light. In her embrace let youthful dreams swim. In her depths let outside worlds dim. Cast childhood aside along winding trails. Forget whatever gnaws, chews or ails. Let go. Do not be bewildered, For you were ancient before you were born. See life renewing itself every night. Everything now seems familiar. Seek guidance from the watchful crescent 'fore morn. Reach home by listening to your own inner light. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.240] (7.oktober.2021) A sonnet (not perfect rhythm) somewhat like: aabbccddefgefg Persepolis Sonnet as in
aabbccddefgefg (south african quilt) Originally aabbccddeefgfg as in "Life" by John Clare (1793-1864). Revised. Now: "Invalid Item" |
| I embrace the darkness I embrace the darkness and the warmth of this tropical night where the silence of distant stars glitter in our eyes. Intrigued by your raven locks, your deep pools glowing by moonlight, I have no fear of darkness with the light of your soul by my side. © Copyright 2005 Kåre Enga [178.237] (4.oktober.2021) We fear what we do not sense. For many the night is spooky because they rely on eyesight and aren't accustomed to sight, smell and touch to inform them of their place in the world. When colors fade and forms are indistinct they fear the unknown that is hidden by light. And fear is instilled in children, as if the dark is not to be trusted. And the fear is passed down through generations in stories and myths. And monsters are alive in the myths. To be sure, there is a certain survival skill for humans who are weak-eyed and cannot pierce the mysteries of the dark. Maybe my lack of concern comes from having good night vision. Maybe my embrace of the dark evolved because of difficulty sleeping with the lights on. In any case I do not fear the dark like many humans. I try to reject the ethno-centric notion that black is inherently bad. I don't find New Yorkers or Italians (think Milan) dressed in black particularly scary. And I love blacks cats as much as I love all cats. Same with black dogs. Or black horses (Black Beauty, Black Stallion). I've met very few black humans as most of the Africans or people with African roots are various shades of brown (with undertones of blue, yellow, red). And I don't believe I've met many Tamils. Regardless I'm not afraid of strangers, only the monsters I know. To embrace nature I need to embrace all of it's colors. I embrace the darkness.  ~310 words Posted in "Blogville " |
| Psalm of 2121 By the rivers of Babylon we wept, our tears falling into the brackish backwaters of the dying delta, our bonfires fast becoming the sea. There by the poplars we hung our heads; in our shame there was no song of joy, for we had forgotten the melody as we had forgotten who once we were. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.231] (19.september.2021) for
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I told Harlow Flick, Right Fielder  : "As for 'mandrake' — that's another issue. [Shouldn't we] be writing about cellphones, IT, Uber Eats, the Great Die-Off (of cash, conversation and cafes), the thousand masks we wear, how fear consumes us.Once I was a gardener. I doubt most urban young people know the names of flowers and trees. They are concrete objects, but unknown and thereby devoid of any emotional response. Even smells... how many can relate to eau-de-outhouse? Or even a rotten egg. Who buys eggs? Not those ordering out everyday for lunch. Without shared experiences we have difficulty communicating across divides of geography, religion, social class or generations." Cellphones: speak to the ether, no hands attached, untethered to a cord, tethered to expectations instead, one is always on call. How slippery? Dismay as it's dropped. IT: I can do this work anywhere at anytime without having to deal with real people face to face. I relish symbols and ideas, how abstractions are clean yet complicated, yet devoid of emotion. Numbers and letters swirl in my dreams, eyes open or shut. Uber Eats: order it and it shall be yours. No need to cook. No mess to clean up. As long as it's on our menu it will appear like magic at your door, still warm, made by anonymous, devoid of any personal touch. Packaged. Great Die-off: fearful of hugs, fearful of unknown faces, we longed to be left alone to our own inner dramas until we forgot how to listen, how to speak; we became fearful of filthy cash transactions, trading them for plastic that allowed us to be tracked by banks; we drove through a place where we could pick-up our preordered latte without human interaction. We gleefully killed cash, conversations and those dreaded slow as espresso cafes, sterilized unwanted smells. We wear masks everyday to hide our poverty, our zits, our true emotions but demand that others show us their face — but only if they don't think like us or look like us or... we get to hide; that's our right, a privilege we deny to others. Our voices muffled, undistinguishable. I don't like new people or eat anything I don't already know. My comfort zone occupies the Past. No change is allowed. My world is flat, anything beyond the horizon will remain unknown. No need to think about a future I can't imagine. I'm sure others can do better. Maybe write about silk flowers and plastic toys devoid of smell or sound. My poem from yesterday: One tattooed angel for Alison ten meters above this icy flow / shoes shuffle in fear / on a slippery walkway — slow and slower still / till a light touch to the shoulder / and a few kind words intervene / as a choir of birds and flowers / and one tattooed angel / guide my feet across stilled waters [178.227] (11.september.2021) I thought I saw Alison. I spoke with Ingrid, a nurse, about covid. Ate Syrian coconut sweet harisa I picked up at farmers market with a cup of strong steaming coffee. Wrote a postcard to Sorji, chatted with Angelica. The AQI wasn't too bad; I could breathe! It was cool so I wore a long-sleeved maroon shirt. The Montana Grizz won at home; I listened to the radio commentary and the crowd noise. Lots of guests in town; horrible traffic. Such were my thoughts. ~555 words "Blogville " 105.645 |
| Under a bluebird sky It was Monday the 10th and time to get up, pour the coffee, put on clothes to buy some groceries, head off to school, or go to work, a warm and sticky day, a stormy evening, a hurricane dodged. It was almost autumn as the skies cleared up and temperatures dropped. It was Tuesday the 11th and time to get up, pour the coffee, put on clothes to buy some groceries head off to school, or go to work on a tranquil morning under a bluebird sky, a beautiful day had begun. © Kåre Enga 2021 [178.226] (10.september.2021) 23 lines For: "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2023-2024)" PPC#14: TIME Write a poem inspired by time. Seconds, minutes, hours, etc. Or even its value, wasting time, buying time, etc. 2001 [September 10th]: It was a warm and sticky day (the dew point rose into the low 70s), the warmest day of the month (high/low of 86°/68°), but then a passing cold front produced thunderstorms in the late afternoon and evening. The evening thunderstorm dumped 0.57" of rain between 8:15-8:45 PM. Skies cleared afterward, setting the stage for a beautiful day tomorrow. views: 105.642 |
| Hallucination Nation You scream "Mandrake!" As if female drakes existed, and criss-crossed your path then sprayed their juice into your mouth to heal the pain or end it. So, you think there's magic brewing in my pot? Oh, if you truly knew you'd leave right now and outrun your clutching shadow. © Kåre Enga 2021 [178.225] for "EXPRESS IT IN EIGHT" |
| Marigold Clematis tried to tangle the sunset with her tendrils. Morning Glory in her wisdom closed shop long ago. Empty lots with their broken ruins testified that all had been lost. But a single marigold in a crack softly said, no. You fled like the sun, hid behind clouds like the moon. Age only comes to those who live long; so, I promised to search till you caressed each wrinkle. Marigold gently whispered, you need to let go. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.224] (6.septembre.2021) for "EXPRESS IT IN EIGHT" |
| An empty box He would leave you oral memories a time long passed that only he remembers when a child collected dandelions and dug up plants to move them to his garden. Not all histories are best recorded. Words of those deemed lesser lay forgotten. Not all truths are passed on down. What remains is but a palimpsest you'll write upon. He would help you forget the troubled times by burning all that once was his. He would take you by the hand to view the ruins. In the cracks, behold how life hung on. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.223] (5.septembre.2021) For "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2023-2024)" PC prompt: Remember 'time capsules'? Write a poem about what you'd put in one ifyou were to create one today. Line Count: minimum of 12 |
| Unhappy endings Two months to relax, dreaming of bitches and beaches, and each tomorrow — you in your bikini — drowning my sorrow. But... there was thick smoke choking the valley's lungs, a slab of bacon burning, tar coating your tongue. I... I tried to breathe under the blast of a/c, sitting by the window, the air-purifier blowing at me. Time seems so precious when green turns to rust when endings loom nigh, you coughing up blood — and dust. I look forward to Tuesday, repacking my books, my paper, my pens, headed back to high-school, relearning how to breathe again. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.219] (29.agosto.2021) 24 lines Taboo-boo-boo words SUMMER BREAK: summer holiday vacation family travel or any derivatives of these words For August 2021
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