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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 |
| Mystress of May laments Welcome to my world that oozes green, a land of ichor, and sickly things. a place where you don't dare to sit nor rest where nestlings eye your fleshy wings. My land spits pestilence and drought, broad wastelands of fire and eyes that burn, barren birthlands dead to all that lived where maggots midst your bones will churn." Hush, before June's Mistress hears you gloat; she'll wipe your presence off her globe the one she holds tight in her hand the one she peers at with her probe. She ordered me to speak, so hold your breath! Ha! She commanded me to arrange your death. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.40] (30.juni.2022) For:
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For June '22 "Invalid Item"  Gingerbread, gingerbread, Gingerbread Man Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Gingerbread Man in a slow rattling whisper Use unsalted butter — and unsulphured molasses, they say; but — life is bittersweet. Add blackstrap, mind the boiling water, forget the grimaces on that kiddie's face — more for me. Is your hair still red? Even better — add a snip or two. Make sure you have enough baking soda — before you begin. Substitute two small eggs if yours aren't large enough. Did you find the cloves? They've been hidden behind the cinnamon since last time — oh so long ago. I missed you, your freckles, that crooked leg — sorry about the dog. Whisk it up in a bowl. My arms don't have the strength — they're always sore. Bake until its done, then slice a fresh hot piece. Too bad you're just a cookie — or I'd ask for more. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.39] (30.juni.2022) 24 lines, free verse Recipe by Once Upon a Chef (Jenn Segal) found on-line: 1½ cups all-purpose flour, spooned into measuring cup and leveled-off with back edge of knife 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons ground ginger 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground cloves 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted ⅔ cup packed dark brown sugar ⅔ cup mild-flavored molasses, such as Grandma's Original (not Robust or Blackstrap) ⅔ cup boiling water 1 large egg Begin by combining the flour, baking soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon and cloves in a large bowl. Whisk to combine and set aside. Melt the butter in a large microwave-safe bowl. Whisk in the brown sugar, molasses, and boiling water. When the mixture is lukewarm, whisk in the egg. (If the mixture is too hot, it will cook the egg.) Add the dry ingredients. Whisk until there are no more lumps. Pour into pan. Bake for about 35 minutes. |
| Starbucks, Anytown, USA Sitting at the cafe, sipping on my latte, one day after flag day, tripping over thoughts. Take away this entree! Take away this ashtray! Do not aim your hairspray! Heed the stray gunshots! © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.32] (16.juni.2022) |
| Sapeur-télégraphiste He ran the wires behind the lines that in the north of Africa defined hell-fire's divide of us and them. Communication brought spare comfort to the front of war, where barren back of brother tangled with cold wires, cooled silent in their coffins. He aspired to the Signal Corps, felt ired when his back was broken, retired to a family life, expired at the age of eighty-two, running out of time and wire beyond the lines dividing us, defining us in life's hell-fire. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [161.4] (21.mars.2004) Sapeur-télégraphiste: soldat du génie spécialisé dans les transmissions, avant que cette arme ne se détache du génie (1942). Signal Corps: The United States Army Signal Corps (USASC) is a branch of the United States Army that creates and manages communications and information systems. Original posted in "A day of joy or sadness." and again in " 2019年5月27日: Make-peace-not-war-blog." : Sapeur-télégraphiste He ran the wires behind the lines that in the north of Africa defined hell-fire's divide of us and them. Communication brought no comfort to the front of war, where barren back of brother tangled with the wires, cooled silent in the coffins. He aspired to the signal corps, felt ired when his back was broken, retired to a family life, expired at the age of eighty-two, running out of time and wire beyond the lines dividing us, defining us in life's hell-fire. © Copyright 2004 Kåre Enga [161.4] (21.mars.2004) |
| Serenade to Odin's Day Even half-blind I see how you brighten our north-western horizon, sky shifting from orange to red to purple — how only puce remains to greet the pinpricks of your ancient cousins — those who bide their time. This is your realm. As long as you are lit they blush respectful, bow before your golden glow — but soon — twilight diamonds sprinkle greetings through your dreams. Far into the cooling night they twinkle — until you yawn — stretch out your fiery fingers to wake our dawn. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.28] (8.juni.2022) 14 lines |
| Net We weave our words in and out, in and out, weft and warp, in and out and end up tangled. We laugh and circle, some go right, some go left, in and out, in and out until we're tangled. We do not care; leaves are green and petals pink; the lawn's been cut; its fragrance fills the air. We laugh until we're tangled, then we laugh some more; the day is done and we have won— until next year. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.27] (6.juni.2022) 16 lines For May/June 2022 "The Taboo Words Contest ~ On Hiatus" Prompt: MAYPOLE DANCING taboo words: ribbons, Maypole, dance, children, music |
| Solace for my eyes Grey-greens, lime-greens, pine-greens. Greens upon greens — and the greys: silvery, lowering, thundering. Let June change her tune, become the dusty drought of a thirsty July — but before we fry: green under green over green. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.26] (4.juni.2022) |
| Ode to the oriole dreams of a ten-year-old Oh, to have been old instead of young, to have glimpsed you building your swaying nest in an old elm tree before it became ill, before it was felled. All those sunsets aglow behind your silhouette. Now I drink your sunshine every morning in Portugal, an old bird pecking at ripened cherries, a mirage missing the pitch, strike three. Ah, the memories of a ten-year-old... now casting shadows midst dreams. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.25] (3.juni.2022) |
| A dog in Uvalde He will wait at the door until you come home. Time does not matter. He'll wait there forever. Your scent will surely fade. Your voice will be no more. But he'll sit by the door, wait and remember. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.24] (2.juni.2022) Based on a political 'cartoon'. https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=455391709966167&set=a.219620833543257 Earlier version: He will wait at the door until you come home. He will wait there forever. Time does not matter. Your scent will surely fade. Your voice will be no more. But he'll sit by the door and always remember. |
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