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 |
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. |
[When I'm depressed] When I'm depressed do not try to cheer me up and don't be distressed. Clouds will disperse as always they must; so, let me be terse: DON'T TELL ME I NEED TO CHEER UP. Sit with me, walk with me, distract me somehow. This gloom will break up when it does... Don't bother to ask why, or when, or how, because... it was what it was. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.23] (27.abril.2022) April 27—“Define” or “explain” something difficult, like a feeling or abstract concept… |
Static We barely touched, sparks flying, depression dying, amazement dawning at what we never knew existed, a solitary moment when time stopped until the clock reset itself and life moved on. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.22] (21.abril.2022) |
Paid for with your arrogance We provide the means, less than you want, yet more than it seems until you forget and then — and then — we deem it's time to remind you. We scarcely complain of unforgiving abuse, the bruises and wounds that remain regardless — until — we cleanse our hands of your stain — and then we bury you. Time erases all thoughts — of the lies you sold and the truth you sought; the way to the stars now forever lost; your graveyard bought, paid for with your arrogance. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.21] (13.april.2022) 18 lines - axaxax, bxbxbx, cxcxcx. For
April 13—Intersection of nature and civilization… |
Oh. No. Oh. No. I don't care what you're selling today. Ain't buying that load of crap, no way. No. Oh? When you're acting like yo' s*** don't stink. Do you think I give a damn; ya think? Oh? No. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.18] (9.april.2022) 10 lines. aa,bb rhyme For
April 9—Persona—write a poem in the voice of a person who is not you. Reading the other entries, I didn't answer the prompt in the same way. Like... were we supposed to pick a specific persona? Mine is non-specific and although this is how I often think, it's not how I speak (I'm either totally polite or go off and use more colorful language; s*** is not my go-to word). Also... I use the word s***. Purposely. But WdC reduces that to s*** because my p-log is 13+. I lowered it to 13+ because too many readers here refuse to read anything that's not allowed in grade school and contests have 13+ limits, as do reviewers and newsletters. Like... 13 year old kids don't say s***! ??? Color me pissed, but I'm tired of fighting the censors. It is what it is. 106.090 |
You've got mail I'll get there. I'll get there. And if I get lost? I slime a trail to find my way back. No need to hurry. No, never a need to hurry. And when I'm tired — I stop. I'll get there, wherever, some day, perhaps. My home, my fortress sits snug on my back. I'm no slug. No, never been a slug. Just a slow moving snail delivering your mail. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.17] (8.april.2022) 16 lines |
I responded to runningwolf04 but cut and post here instead. I believe your poll
refers to prose. Poets want something else. 1. Did you like it? 2. Can you offer any advice to strengthen it poetically. DO NOT: 3. Correct my grammar/spelling when I'm speaking in dialect. 4. Treat it as if it's a college or grade school essay or report. ADVICE: 5. If you have never written poetry or are tone-deaf and refuse to read it out-loud, do me a favor... don't review it. Send a comment instead. Comments are welcome. 6. If your only experience is English-only-speaking MidAmerica and my writing isn't... and that offends you or confuses you, don't review. But please leave a comment so I know. I appreciate comments/reviews by tight-form experts (oriental, short forms) like Tinker or free-flowing (beatnik) verse experts like Brian K Compton Is The Name. There are others who are experts in their chosen field. My poetic offerings lose to them all the time. But... if you're a novel-writer don't bother lecturing me on haiku... because I know you don't have a clue. K (as in Cory) |
Clematis, Queen of the Trellis She climbs from year to year, a bud here, a bloom there. It's enough to let her flower, bidding bees enter her bower. But don't be fooled; she's no one's tool. Strangling, frightening, her tendrils tightening. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.13] (2.april.2022) For
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