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! 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 |
In a Cherokee burial ground Teresita, 2003 Stone pillars. Their names engraved in ayaguh. The bones now bleached. Words they once spoke now dying. Who will recite the prayers a thousand years from now. Who will listen. Who will respond. |
I long to wake up next to the one who cuddled me all night, body odor nauseating, bad breath revolting. There's nothing worse than lying alone, someday dying alone, Be the one who keeps me warm until I'm bone cold. |
After a long wait you arrive handsome, hung and horny, an ample answer to my longing wrapped with rainbows. Life plays party tricks, promises hell or paradise. I'll pass— and settle for the soft sea-sounds of your snoring. |
In my life Mark sang to my youthful heart: gleen as gleen could be. Kevin swaddled me with love: layer upon layer. Gare was what I wanted to be, yet could not be. Pan now proves: I'm not dead yet. |
Clouds Overhead They bring rain to other places— broken promises— like those I made to you. They bring winds that blow me away— to other places— where I'll ne'er forget you. |
Justice on the playground 1961 blood and royalty lollipops and loyalty strawberries screamed while ice cream redeemed mistrust as cerise swirls seduced, like rubies and raspberries now reduced to dust or just us. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [179.157] (19.mars.2023) |
There's only old guidebooks to life— with sketchy maps—so to say; but, wayfarers learn by walking paths; and, enjoy adventures along the way. I never wanted to walk alone; yet, without a passport, borders closed. |
Daffodils march on and on through all my childhood dreams and a myriad of tulips bloom or so it seems; but here the smoke and chilies choke as durians stench the air. Oh, to be a youth again and debonair. |
my rashes fade from red to pink; my bruise turns into rainbows. All futures lie beyond these wounds the ones that I've survived. And smoke gives way to rain— tomorrow? And joy overcomes the pain and sorrow. |
Your way or the highway? I chose, and landed in Norway— fifty years later. I wakened to it: snow-on-vidda, my hair turning white. no way to deny the advance of age, the calming of rage, the Coming Home. Earlier 47 word version written today: Your way or the highway? I choose My Way and landed in Norway fifty years after I dreamt it. Now I wakened to it: the vidda snow capped, my hair turning white, no way to deny the advance of age, the calming of rage, the Coming Home. |