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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 |
| Happiness: No worries, no obsessing about the could'ves, would'ves, should'ves, letting go of balloons to pursue their dreams, walking through the dappled days of reality, feet to the ground, embracing small miracles along the way. 34w [8] Sadness: Once again, the letting go, the grieving, your hand slipping out of mine, your heart beating out of time, stopped forever. Greatest sadness? No. Stepping on an ant. Not watering a plant. Not asking you to marry me. 38w [9] I deserve: No more, no less. I've been cursed and blessed. Didn't deserve either. Grace and mercy, the kindness of strangers, the virtues that elude me, vanity staring back at me from the mirror whispering: let go. 35w [10] Our Love: Your leg traps me, your arms hug, your body keeps me warm. In love? In lust? Or just two lost pieces of the puzzle hooking up. Do I dare let go? Outside of time, each moment matters in this place. 40w [11] Spring: Heat and smoke give way to wind and rain. Snow melts under an unrelenting sun. What remains in Isan, or Montana, if not the mud that covers us, ushers in the change of seasons, urging us to let go. 37w [12] |
| We all die Be realistic! We all die, yet some never live — and some die twice. We all die, perhaps to meet again — suffering won't suffice. Live! Live! Live! How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again! © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.7] (26.mars.2023) Inspired by "Death Is Nothing At All" by Henry Scott-Holland. Earlier version: We all die Be realistic! We all die, yet some never live — and some die twice. We all die, perhaps to meet again — so savor each moment. Live! Live! Live! How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again! © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.7] (26.mars.2023) Inspired by "Death Is Nothing At All" by Henry Scott-Holland. |
| Wednesday's lament ... green turns grey at sunset 6 I dress in Sunday's red 8 or pretty-in-pink on Tuesdays. 0 Lonesome blues of Friday come each week; but, 6 Yellow cheers up Mondays. 6 I'm not some messed-up clown, 8 can't turn my smile upside down, 0 and dare not strut in tan like officers. 6 I've never been The Man. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [180.6] (25.mars.2023) Notes: I left the syllable count to show structure. There's some rhythm, rhyme and spare alliteration. The Thai colors of the week: red, yellow, pink, green/grey, orange, blue, purple. I wrote this on a purple day. |
| In a Cherokee burial ground Teresita, 2003 Stone pillars. Their names engraved in ayaguh. The bones now bleached. Words they once spoke now dying. Who will recite the prayers a thousand years from now. Who will listen. Who will respond. |
| I long to wake up next to the one who cuddled me all night, body odor nauseating, bad breath revolting. There's nothing worse than lying alone, someday dying alone, Be the one who keeps me warm until I'm bone cold. |
| After a long wait you arrive handsome, hung and horny, an ample answer to my longing wrapped with rainbows. Life plays party tricks, promises hell or paradise. I'll pass— and settle for the soft sea-sounds of your snoring. |
| In my life Mark sang to my youthful heart: gleen as gleen could be. Kevin swaddled me with love: layer upon layer. Gare was what I wanted to be, yet could not be. Pan now proves: I'm not dead yet. |
| Clouds Overhead They bring rain to other places— broken promises— like those I made to you. They bring winds that blow me away— to other places— where I'll ne'er forget you. |
| Justice on the playground 1961 blood and royalty lollipops and loyalty strawberries screamed while ice cream redeemed mistrust as cerise swirls seduced, like rubies and raspberries now reduced to dust or just us. © Copyright 2023 Kåre Enga [179.157] (19.mars.2023) |
| There's only old guidebooks to life— with sketchy maps—so to say; but, wayfarers learn by walking paths; and, enjoy adventures along the way. I never wanted to walk alone; yet, without a passport, borders closed. |
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