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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 |
| Purr inspired by Martina Lupton Kramer In space no one can hear you purr, Zmitri. On that barren rock, no one hears you cry out in thirst. I mourn your absence and my loneliness. Head towards the daystar. I'll meet you there. Where we embrace we'll find our forever home. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.106.zm] (28.august.2023) 8 lines, 44 words. |
| From the tower From the tower 4 distant mountains lay in shadow, 8 cloaked, choked by smoke, 4 veiled, washed by rain, 4 thunder blaring, 4 lightning cackling; wet drops lashing 8 the window pane 4 = 36 Remote as clouds 4 grey-green mountains squat like islands, 8 moonlit mystery, 5 green as jungles, 4 nightly noisy, 4 like cities of frogs and herons 8 lit by starlight 4 = 37 clouds now gather 4 around the condo's fourteen floors 8 mountains glower, 4 sad, diminished 4 by human eyes 4 who only see piles of money 8 and what it buys 4 = 36 © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.106.zm] (20.august.2023) 21 lines |
| Under a sky full of stars In a firmament black as pitchblende the first rock felt lonely until beckoned by a distant light, lit by you, Zmitri. As it flew like a comet towards you, I hitched a ride for free. And I, under a sky full of stars, saw only you, Zmitri. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.88zm] (8.august.2023) |
| Alien in Aisle Eleven! I watched clouds come in from the east a ROILing mess of grey and black — water and anger. I sat there as if to BROIL was my ticket to hell, like beef or beets, steamed like prawns or frogs. You RECOIL at my reddened face, my peeling arms, my pimples; yet, sit there in nothing but your banana bikini. I've seen better in Aisle Eleven. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.75] (30.juli.2023) |
| Ovi for Pan June. I welcome cooling moonbeams, inhaling strawberry ice cream that I've sprinkled with ovaltine. Should I leave some for you? I scrape this ceramic bowl clean, it's not that I mean to be mean. You lie there absorbed by your dreams and sleep unaware. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.56.a] (15.juni.2023) Version in past tense. Ovi for Pan In June I welcomed cold moonbeams, inhaling strawberry ice cream sprinkled with malted ovaltine. Should I have left some for you? I scraped the ceramic bowl clean; it's not that I meant to be mean. You lay there absorbed by your dreams and slept unaware. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.56.b] (15.juni.2023) |
| Monochrome in indigo all color removed except for blue this nighttime gift of shame you left me towers I cannot climb supplications declined emotions that never set me free here in the city surrounded by millions I shake all alone Kåre Enga [180.55] (8.juni.2023) |
| Impatiens I planted them every summer, an oval of soft pink against a backdrop of sage-green cedar. They mirrored my youthful struggle to be patient — I waited. You never responded — should I have chosen firecrackers, rainbow explosions of color. Kåre Enga [180.54] (7.juni.2023) |
| In Sousse-Massa They climb trees. They eat fruit, shit and spit the nuts, that we collect, that we press into argan oil put on your face. Rake the ground then comb your hair. No woman's an atoll when goats must be tended; no man's a reef where women tend to them. Kåre Enga [180.48] (29.mai.2023) 8 lines, ~53 words |
| I would walk away. I would say little. Nothing if I could. Don't want your crumbs. I'm not so dumb. I'm not your chum. Stultify, nullify, justify, petrify. Good guy? Bad guy? Bye-bye! Should I stay? No! Run, run, run. |
| In their worlds of morality, venality, normality, we dare not show exceptionality or illumine their mediocrity. In perfect worlds of better and best we unbelievers forage for crumbs, along with the rest, yet refuse to invest in their insufferable totality. |
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