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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 |
| Parasite to my Muse You give me dreams but not the means to build a scaffold to hang them on, promise powder puff skies that hide at night dissipate by day so many rainbows so little rain just enough moisture to keep on living my body a host for your visions. When I'm finished sucked dry an empty husk left to crumble to dust where will you go who will welcome you next. KE [177.50] (25.aprille.2020) |
| What never comes ... never comes the sum of zero and something still adds up to something but zero plus zero will never equal one waiting for calls, a picture, something leaving a number, address, keys to a heart. they're there on the table in envelopes waiting to be opened. it's never enough but the giver knows that gifts must sent and if not delivered, if not wanted, it matters not. KE [177.49] (24.abril.2020) |
| A pitter-patter of nothingness You splashed water at me while I read, wetting the book, stoking my flames begging me to rise like a thunderhead, to hailstone all hell on your games. And I do, over and over again, old man. It's been too many years, decades it seems since the drought of words began. This silence between us screams. I listen to the drip-drip of the faucet, wind lashing rain on the window panes. Do I ever value a gift till I've lost it? I will never forget your name. A pitter-patter of lost opportunities. A pitter-patter of soft gentle rain. A pitter-patter that leaves the earth thirsty. A pitter-patter of nothingness bringing pain. KE [177.48] (23.april.2020) Inspired by: SB Musing  104.133 |
| Or maybe a letter in poetic form? I dunno. I just felt a need to write this. A letter to ... from an icy place This river doesn't flow into the Mississippi. The people here are barely friendly. I owe you an apology. The anger wells up within me, overflows and those downriver brave the flood or get washed away. Once, there was a lake here plugged by ice. When the dam broke it took all the dirt with it, scraped the scablands bare. Montana's loss became Oregon's gains. Washington still feels the pain. The Palouse turns green in between. Not everything is zero-sum, or black and white or even I'm wrong, You're right. I'd prefer win-win. But an apology may not be enough to cross this gulf. My angry sails catch sulfuric breezes. No one needs more acid in their life. I may have to wait until I figure this out by looking within. I'll give you a shout once I know. No, the folks who live along the lungs of America: the Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Ohio, they know. All kindness flows with the mud and sand and silt (but not my anger, shame and guilt) into the bosom of Mississippi. KE [177.46] (22.april.2020) |
| On the Clark Fork of the Columbia River Back-clad kayakers wrapped in rainbow- colored kayaks sit in the curl of the wave, riding a flow that caresses the willows never again to pass this way. Fly-fisherman wade in cold-dark shallows, luring fish hidden behind big rocks; patient herons hunt for minnows; hungry ospreys dive for bass, careful to not be swept away. This river completes its mission today and every day. Nothing gets in its way. KE [177.45] (21.april.2020) 104.117 |
| YOU SHALL NOT BE NAMED Hiss all you want, I'm pissed at how you only think of yourself, how 'others' are always to blame. I'm tired of your f***ing games that reduce me to tears, trigger my fears, demean me. I can't wait until you're history, when your tizzy-fits are known for the narcissism that it showed, a never-ending pulp fiction, a toilet-papered tantrum. I can't wait to forget your face, your fame obliterated, your petulance a mere footnote to this nightmarish loss, game over and thankfully done. May it come sooner than later. May God speed your demise. No, I won't pray for your health, bow to your wealth, kiss your white ass, nor mention your name. KE [177.43] (19.abril.2020) |
| Throw me a thread I've followed crumbs —— in order to find you but crows get there first, won't show me the way. Pines say they know —— their whispers fade out in the calm at the end of the day. I arrive at your doorstep —— twenty years late. I knock —— and only hear echoes of laughter. I want to join in but windows are shut, doors locked, bones hanging from rafters. I am lost in your labyrinth, caught in your web, pricked by roses —— pruned to leave thorns. To show the way in, throw me a thread I'll wait here —— ravaged and torn. KE [177.41] (19.april.2020) |
| Dreams by day, mares by night Dreams by day, mares by night; demons wait till lids shut tight like a driver asleep at the wheel. They squeal in delight to dump whatever horror I need to relive over and over and over again. You're there somewhere hidden by others, but sensed, none-the-less, and silent. I seek you in life's labyrinth as walls shift to block my way. I need to hear your voice. But others shout in my ear and I can only hear my heartbeat every time they scream; No, it's not daylight's dreams I fear when demonic mares gather each sunset and softly neigh. Go away, I answer, unable to stay awake. KE [177.38] (17.aprille.2020) Note: For years, I had recurring nightmares searching for a friend I could not find. They have thankfully dissipated over time. |
plane, train, automobile   take-off, jerk-forward, find-the-right-gear  jerk-off choo-choo, sputter, roar  bore-me swerve, bounce, back-and-forth  go-forth land, hit-the-break, blow-the whistle  blow-me KE [177.37] (16.abril.2020) |
| This empty landscape color removed by darkest night promised by moonlight dawn's cold lies as white light white mountains white sky faceless whiteness blinds then binds us naked and restless from living stranded in between at twilight when despondency from struggles covets snow's stillness grave's repose KE [177.34] (15.april.2020) Note:repetition of 8/5/3 104.080 |
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