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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 |
| Lick me, full lips and tongue. I'm not a warty toad. Like a sapid fig — I exist to be consumed. 2/4/6/10/2 no intentional rhyme or rhythm. similar to the 2/4/6/8/2 = 22 syllables of a cinquain. prompt: sapid. For "Invalid Item"  |
| "After the party" Christine, Christine, Christine, Christine! Must everything be ordered and pristine? Christine, why do you scream? ©KåreEnga (1.january.2020) Notes: Syllables per line: 8/10/6 Meter: 1. -/-/-/-/ 2. //---/---/ but read -/-/-/-/-/ 3. -///// but could be read -/,-/-/ maintaining a pattern of -/ (unstressed/stressed) the pause after the comma makes the third line conform more closely with the first. Rhyme: aaa Prompt: pristine Channeling the song "Jolene".  One way to read this: chris.TINE.chris.TINE.chris.TINE.chris.TINE!  must.EV.ry.(thing).be.OR.dered.(and).pris.TINE? chris.TINE.——.why.DO.(you).SCREAM? |
Untitled All hail our apple trees festooned with fallen snow. Tankards gripped — tight in hand — we wassail friend and foe. Note: Couplet of rhyming alexandrine lines (12 syllables). 12/12 and a/a rhyme; definite rhythm. For:
Had to look it up to be sure as in my dialect it's two syllables: Wassail (/ˈwɒsəl/, /-eɪl/; Old Norse "ves heil", Old English was hál, literally: be hale) is a beverage of hot mulled cider, drunk traditionally as an integral part of wassailing, a Medieval Christmastide English drinking ritual intended to ensure a good cider apple harvest the following year. Can be a noun or a verb. |
| My favorite part of "winter" is the first and last snow and any day when the sun shines... like earlier. So 5 winter haikus. 1. Swiftly snow falls, a carpet for sandaled-feet of the bobcat Not a haiku but haiku-ish: (English syllables: 3/7/3; 11/14/7 Japanese 'on'); a seasonal word, snow; the comma cuts it into two parts; two images (more-or-less), snow and bobcat. What does it evoke? Maybe "silent" would be better than "swiftly'. It could evoke the silence of a heavy snow or the awe of seeing a bobcat. I dunno... I only write this stuff. 2. Carpet of fresh snow — sandaled footprints of the bobcat (4/5/4; 9/15/7) em-mark to break, a clearer two images than above and doesn't feel like a sentence. Evokes? Awe maybe. 3. Carrots sweetened by frost — grey whiskers over thin lips This one is (4/5/4 σ or 9/10/8 'on') frost indicates season (autumn, early winter), the em-mark — cuts into two parts, grey whiskers indicates age. It could evoke "age", maybe the sweetness of growing old. 4. Pale yellow rays — geraniums lean towards frosted windows (4/6/4 or 8/14/10) again frosted indicates winter, the juxtaposition might evoke longing or hope. 5. A figure huddled in blankets — one bulb lights the hovel Hmm... has a cutting punctuation. But what is the season? Winter is implied by 'huddled in blankets'. What emotion evoked? Sadness or loneliness maybe as poverty is also implied. (5/5/4 or 8/13/7) |
| Make me shine! scintillate what your throbbing heart keeps yearning to articulate. Don't hesitate, it's ... getting late. © Kåre Enga (20.diciembre.2019) Set up as: 3/5/8/5/3 with a rhyme scheme of: axaxa. For
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| The flag waves gently with the breeze. Earlier it hung limp. This valley epitomizes the worse of both worlds. Hell Gate winds that howl from the east bring cold or snow or no-good-news. But at least they clear out the inversion that settles in when there's no wind. These mountains hold us in their ancient wrinkled hands and won't let go. Cold to bitter-cold in December. Choked with smoke most every August. It's November and the grey is settling in for its winter nap. We've been fortunate to have some bright clear days this autumn. Fortunate that the early September frost and snow and the bitter cold in October didn't claim us. Fortunate that football season has been extended one more weekend. This town dies once its students leave. Soon. The snowbirds fly south shortly after the students. It's the yearly migration of wealth and good looks. By mid-December only we who are ghosts of ghosts remain. The lumpy mountains don't mind. The bears are asleep. The elk would prefer us to leave... permanently. A few of us gathered last night on the eve of Thanksgiving. Not everyone has family to attend to... We are fortunate to still be here. 103.363 |
| I wrote two flash fictions. "From Norway with Love 12nov2019 (294w)" and "Night Heron Shift Change 13.11.19 [300w]" . Angus  has been kind to review both but I told him:"Thank-you for your kind review. I'll need to add, now that the daily contest is past, that it's based on the account of a friend who knows lots about birds. It's a highly fictionalized account of a true event. I do have a degree in biology (flowers not birds) ... which helps ... and I spend lots of time observing people and places when I travel which also helps. As a poet I try to include the senses. One problem... I don't seem to know quite how to write flash fiction. This is more of a vignette than true flash. There isn't much of a hook and action narrative isn't my forté. But it gets me writing. " So... I need help writing flash fiction! In other good news: I neglected my journal for 3 weeks! But, I'm now back to daily musings and scribbles. I'm on page 5,072. I have put most of my postcards I sent on-line at facebook (cropped, addresses not showing, to... first name only). I'm slowly transcribing them here. I had a daydream about becoming so spread out that folks could see right through me. Need to pursue this. There isn't enough time left for me to ever catch up, so I just need to focus on doing something every day. |
| Parrots in Amsterdam or was it Istanbul? Tulips all the same... and pink daffodils. Purple cherry blossoms in Taipei and cosmos in Zhunan. The flame-of-the-forest vermilion above the unrelenting green in San José in winter... ...where you met one boyfriend but didn't abandon the others. Too much beauty to embrace in one short hour. How did one day turn into a week among the gardens of the Balkans, the marigolds of autumn gracing old stones in plots where bones long ago returned to soil. The Living and the Dead. You move between both worlds where sunlight urges you to make haste and nighttime begs you to rest. And what to make of the gossamer petals of poppies? How you migrate from one flower to the next. © Kåre Enga [176.xxx] (9.november.2019) |
| The limp flag caressed his thin hair as he ambled along his way down the sidewalk. He didn't mind. His father had been a veteran. Came back injured. But alive. No one in his family wanted to see another war. No one exalted flag draped bodies anymore. The sun warmed his bald spot and invited him to keep walking, encouraged every plodding step. He crossed the intersections carefully. He no longer had the legs to jump out of the way of the impatient. He practiced patience, a virtue he had often heard about but had never met as a youth. When he passed the Peace Center a stray thought entered his mind. "Peace is more than an end to War." He had spent years working on that, had friends among almost every marginalized population he had ever met. And having traveled he had met most any human imaginable. "We are One," he whispered. It was not a radical idea but walls were listening and the enemies of peace were everywhere. Why did people lie about each other? Why was it necessary to have demons to fight? Couldn't everyone just get along? No, Rodney King, we can't. But he wasn't giving up. He knew his days were numbered. He knew the owls were whispering his name to the winds. But he wanted to see some peace before he gave in. Not until his last hair left his head would he ever give in. |
| Clerihews A Clerihew is a comic verse consisting of two couplets and a specific rhyming scheme, aabb invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) at the age of 16. The poem is about/deals with a person/character within the first rhyme. In most cases, the first line names a person, and the second line ends with something that rhymes with the name of the person. Hail birthday girl Joyce the gentleman's choice who wait for her sighting with each bolt of lightning © Kåre Enga (8.july.2019) [176.137] Will Donald Trump's hair light the New World's Fair or will his torch flame Good America's name © Kåre Enga {8.july.2019) [176.138] Can we bow to Megan Rapinoe who by now we all must surely know bows to no one who can't play at all yet plays alone with smallish balls © Kåre Enga {8.july.2019) [176.139] And here's to dear Melania who deals with egomania by hiding out where Don can't find the inner reaches of his mind © Kåre Enga {8.july.2019) [176.140] When I remember Trump will I think of every chump or will I recognize it was all about his size © Kåre Enga {8.july.2019) [176.141] Allison Goodnight tattoos at midnight on bulging brawn the promise of dawn © Kåre Enga {8.july.2019) [176.142] 102.892 |
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