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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 |
| Rosemary told me she has no tattoos Spring sprung and peach blossoms burst. Rosemary was tempted to ride a motorbike; but, she'd never ridden in an ambulance before, never'd hit a deer, never watched someone die and didn't want herself to be the first. She had no scars, no broken bones (except ... maybe ... her little toe). She wanted to live under bluegreen skies, thrive to capture eighty more years of sunrise over the ocean, more summer sunsets and slices of warm peach pie. I penned another poem to honor her name and asked who'll read this? Rosemary smiled, then replied: Don't matter to me. KE [177.33] (14.april.2020) This is supposed to be like a sonnet but breaking the rules. To me it's just free verse. I have no idea what others consider a beat or a meter or anything else. My ear does not hear any music in what I wrote above and I hear what I read so for me it feels like cut up prose. But whatever ... It's based on answers at spacebook to one of those silly questionnaires. Have you ever done this? Do you have any of those? Who will play along? I left out that Rosemary doesn't have a tattoo... and then added that tidbit to the title. She's a real person and just turned 80. 104,078 blog views |
| A prosy pot of poseys And there among the pottery, the broken earthenware a crockery fit to line the bottom of a palm tree pot that in the conservatory among the snobbery subjugates the jugs that hold the bleeding hearts that moan beyond true mockery we try to help as naughtily arrives the frozen daughter of Count Daughtery the Icy-maiden Valerie the Valkyrie-of-kill-all-hope herself. KE [177.32] (13.april.2020) |
| Hidden in the closet there's a door to dreams Calm dreams fade with gathering twilight, nightmares invade his body's chaos, poking at pus as gusts grow colder. Slam shut the door to remembrance! Not every window needs to be transparent. Opaqueness protects the fragile seedling seeking strength to brave the storm once the door to danger opens. He sits and count the minutes, afraid to leave too soon, too late. The say life's best lived in sunlight, but for him, hidden in the closet, there's a door to dreams KE [177.30] (12.april.2020) |
| AI AI AI We scream in voices our forefathers would barely recognize, mis-communicate in ways they could not fathom. Are we Artificial, Natural or both? We surely aren't ... intelligent. Artifice or artifact our lies belie us, expose this truth: we are but flesh and yet, the soul within knows better, muted, bides its time until released it soars back to the Omnipresent Source that feeds it. KE [177.28] (11.aprille.2020) 104.065 |
| [as flesh sloughs off these blenching bones] as flesh sloughs off these blenching bones, you fill the hours of my longing abandoned, I will die alone for I am made of dirt and stone and naught can right these worldly wrongs once flesh sloughs off these blenching bones what friends could not accept, condone I spoke to swaying gath'ring throngs yet now abandoned, die alone where bitter winds have come and blown away the breath of once belonging flesh sloughs off these blenching bones and only you are left to moan, one fading note, one last torch song but now I leave to die alone your fingers can no longer roam my face, embrace and heal with songs as flesh sloughs off these blenching bones abandoned, I will die alone KE [177.26] (10.abril.2020) A variation of a villanelle: 1b2 ab1 ab2 ab1 ab2 ab12 104,075 |
| A Daily Disruption Sun shines though yonder window box. I sit here attached to chatting socks. Both demand my attention. Meow. And then there's that. From 5 in the morning, every hour, what's with this cat? (He loves to be scratched.) A gentle breeze wafts though the room as I begin to type my daily doom... then Bang. I live in a place with paper walls, where friendly ghosts sip oolong tea... most quietly... while noisy people pace the halls. (We greet each other out of desperation.) Now my fingers clack against the keys: bang meow bang meow bang meow ... Drip....... Drip....... Drip....... (When will they ever get that eff-in' faucet fixed.) KE [177.25] (9.abril.2020) |
| Come sashay down Bahia's streets dada DAA dada DAA We play the agogô. dada DAA dada DAA Two notes: one high, one low. dada DAA dada DAA Our bodies squeezed together, ache a third, to sing, to sigh, to moan, to make our music sweeter. We move as one with syncopation, to repeated clacks of sticks and drums. We groove moist lips and ample hips and begin to thrum DAA dadaduh DAA dadaduh DAA ... and sashay down Bahia's streets DAA dadaduh DAA dadaduh DAA ... to the samba beat. Kåre Enga [177.23] (8.abril.2020) Notes: Agogô: The agogô bell is a fairly old instrument that originated in Africa and it’s one that produces an extremely high note. The instrument is comprised of anywhere between two and four conical shaped or truncated cones that are all linked together by a U-shaped piece of metal. The cones on an agogô bell are sized differently, and the sound that the instrument produces will depend on which cone is hit. You can hear the agogô bell in some traditional African Yoruba music. |
104,042 views "O my Lord! Make Thy beauty to be my food, and Thy presence my drink, and Thy pleasure my hope, and praise of Thee my action ... " Bahá’u’lláh I thought about using the first lines of this prayer to narrow the prompt since "food" was too broad. Make Thy beauty to be my food In these times of trouble, cupboards bare, as ugliness rules a wanting world, make Thy beauty to be my food. When thirsty for humanity's hug, when kindness seems to have disappeared, make Thy presence my drink, that I may do what's best for others always doing what's right for myself; make Thy pleasure my hope, When anger rises within my heart and words keep me from my earthly tasks, make praise of Thee my action. KE [177.23] (7.abril.2020) |
| Our Beloved Country we suffer the old the young those who have hurt others their wounded victims when will we forgive their sins our sins how soon will what drives us apart bring us together in the end the father of the murdered son the father of the killer meet in grief if they can forgive ... when will we ask for forgiveness when will we embrace KE [177.21] (6.april.2020) "Cry, The Beloved Country" by Alan Paton. 104,040 |
| This Death of Dreams For Mark and Leslie The letter sits where she left it. One word, just one word screaming in red: INFERTILE She will never look at it again. She strokes the fur purring at her side and wonders how and why. How will she tell him about this death of dreams, he who always wanted one of each or two ... it never mattered. Will he move on to another now? Will her trembling body remain untouched. He knows his boys and girls can swim. He's launched his million mini-me's time and time again. But that letter sitting on her desk ... one word makes his rugged features cry. He tries to imagine a future of nephews and nieces, piles of dog and cat fur. He goes to hold her trembles in his arms. He vows to never let go. KE [177.19] (4.april.2020) |
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