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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 |
| Keep your distance White ashes fall from livid skies, chilled children of faraway waters, pile wherever they can find a perch. Protected from wind, they drift like dunes as cold seeks to invade my refuge. Only glass panes divide those living from the dead while I watch flakes dance, then stealthily seek a warmer nook. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.297] (26.desember.2021) For
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| A the bear snoozes — oblivious in its cave I sit by the cold window — watching snowflakes [296a] B I sit on the toilet thinking of today's meal what comes out — is yesterday's news [296b] C cold descends on mountains — settles in the valley Thoughts — like snowflakes — rise and fall and wander [296c] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.296] (26.desember.2021) |
| A hiding from sunlight — the cave-dweller lifts a book sets it down again [295a] B when where how Oblivion responds why why why [295b] C sunlight sends tendrils into his room — he cowers in dark corners [295c] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.295] (24.desember.2021) |
| cold nips the wings of those who soar above me — rests in my bones [178.294a] The window pane protects the green leaves — I look out at snow [178.294b] smell of woodsy mushrooms and acrid onions — wintry thoughts fade [178.294c] The soft chair that hugged young flesh — now hardened bruises bones [178.294d] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.294] (23.december.2021) |
| Pears What's only good in pies and sauce — apples! Overrated. Adorning trees before the frost — red and round or rotten. Erase your nightmares now and seek — a form more succulent. And in an instant what appears — Anjou, Bartlett, Comice. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.292] (21.december.2021) For
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| Any opinion which ones you like? Wintry haiku A snow, snow drifts, the daughters of snow — caws from winter's crow [291a] B ice glazes walkways — green pines tinkle as we fall [291b] C wind hollows drifts turning everything white — where did the mountains go [291c] D slip, slide, slush covers the walkways — one red coat [291d] E grey, grey, grey, more grey than the sky can hold — snow squalls [291e] F one dark spot amidst the 'spance of white — Ah, a crow [291f] G sunny beach day we arrive in shorts — locals shiver [291g] H pointsettia blooms — also red shorts and redder sunburn [291h] I so tired of rain, we rejoice with the sun — anyone thirsty? [291i] © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.291] (20.desember.2021) For Week #29
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Onions roasting in a toaster-oven   Onions roast with spuds and carrots coated with slick olive juice, heated in a toaster oven, filling rooms with acrid smoke. My aging aunt once lost her senses, couldn't tell when food was burning; only onions warned, "don't torch the house." She was grateful for this smelly gift. In this Season of Covid coughs are suspect, spreading cheer to those too close. Losing one's sense of smell seems fatal, till the scent of onions knocks us out. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.288] (13.desember.2021) For
Week # 28. Write a poem based on this idea/feeling: 'The scent cascaded into every room.' Form: author's choice Line Count: minimum of 12 I'm still chewing my cud. From Cubby (not collectable here):   105.831 |
| Soxie and the Foxes Bobby likes boxes. Sandy likes sand. Their kitten plays with soxes then gently nips my hand. Now Soxie sleeps in boxes, poops in the sand. She plays with feral foxes. They've formed a backyard band. © 2021 Kåre Enga [178.281] (5.desember.2021) For
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| 32nd of November Old lungs wheeze as stiff bellows seek to reignite cold embers of what must die, best left to ashes. Feathers dull, its bones brittle, the phoenix accepts its demise; our hour of transformation has arrived. Snow melts as it falls on eyelashes; my red tea pot whistles — it's time. © 2021 Kåre Enga [178.279] (2.desember.2021) For
Note: the long expected hour of passing has arrived? Original: our hour of passing has arrived. A patch of peach I forgot about that fiery orb until it set, a patch of peach peeking through the glowering grey, fading in the southern sky, dark day — now darksome night, a gloomy passage through the cooling calm of twilight. Now wrapped in blankets the balm of cocoa warms my hands; till daybright it's fragrance bids me nod my head and rest. © 2021 Kåre Enga [178.280] (2.desember.2021) If you can't collect here collect above |
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much!
I just went with the flow. Could use a minor edit but I'm happy that you like it.
