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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 |
| I want to be happy know the warmth of someone who loves but does not suffocate my spirit, my freedom, who'll let me go, let me breathe until we become one with stars again, become dust transversing the universe, commingling into mud to fill the void with bird- song; unless, we're out of tune, put existence at risk; best then to go our separate ways, forget the longing, lust, now pitiful, perish. © Kåre Enga (30.september.2024) 22 lines 115.993 |
| Second Spring Late summer's dark forest green shifts to yellow as time recedes then back again green on green as spring rains bring a cooling breeze and temperatures drop day by day as wild creatures go back to sleep, I feel life's joy before wind's blast feel the flowers share their fragrance, feel your warm embrace again... as all rejoice with gentle sunshine, the gentle rain, the gentler mist, return to a time before the melt when frozen we were encased in ice before the heat of our kiss. © Kåre Enga (17.september.2024) 115.360 |
| End of summer When the goldenrod blooms and our swollen tears fall, footballs fly though cool air. Do not fumble or fall. When Edith Piaf warbles and autumn leaves fall, stiff aching legs give out as we stumble and fall. With crisp air and frost, burning leaves signal it's fall, and then pumpkins are carved, their wide grins mouthing "fall". At the end of summer comes the harvest of fall. Before the sleep of winter we're glad that it's fall. © Kåre Enga (16.September.2024) 16 lines 115.248 |
| potato cakes the day glooms over the mountains grey skies part for a moment cold rains hold off it's the season of mourning that time between summer and winter time to rest or nap or cook too many potato cakes what will i eat come morning? more potato cakes I lie down but chatter in the hallway summons me to open the door i stay in bed snug and safe except from nightmares those bastard cousins of dreams i drift i sleep i wake safe to say it's time for coffee time to open eyes to the day time for rain and a potato cake with carrots and a potato cake with cheese on top snug in a bun i will read today i promise promise i will write something new finish what i've written then go to market to buy some bread and whatever's cheap but not potatoes unless they're on sale and my back doesn't ache and it doesn't rain © Kåre Enga (14.september.2024) 30 lines 115.244 |
A poem about bald cypress: My knees My knees breathe above the muck. My arms shelter placid waters, that thin emerald sheen of life protecting hidden depths below. My needles fall come October, blanket all with rust and gold. An autumn quilt of warmth and color. I am old. This swamp is older. © Copyright 2024 Kåre Enga (13.september.2024) 115.162 |
| In the garden of my thoughts Flitting here and there, a rainbow glanced from corners of the eye, I am a hummingbird, an enigma — gone in a flash. And I am a worm, just trying to get from one side of the sidewalk to the other. A slug, a snail, a sloth. I'm the northern twilight taking it easy, reluctant to fade forever, lingering in your thoughts. Like the scarlet pimpernel, waiting to be plucked, too shy, too insignificant to toot its horn, will I wait until I wither? But — sometimes I'm fragrant, a night-blooming cactus, beckoning — come hither — to each and every moth. © 2024 Kåre Enga (6.september.2024) 20 lines |
| Thoughts based on Taylor Swift's song... that I didn't like. Midnight Rain I was midnight; he was sunshine. He basked in the heat; I wanted rain. He needs certainty. I want that too. But he wanted yesterday, today, and tomorrow to stay the same. I needed change. 24 days was not enough. 24 months was far too much. But in 24 years I'll be dead, long past the pain. He was daylight, making me breakfast. I was midnight, listening to him snore. I was happy. Why did I want more? He was sunshine with a golden heart. I was silver, shadow of the moon. I love him still. Did I leave too soon? © Kåre Enga 2024 (4.september.2024) 16 lines After Taylor Swift's "Midnight Rain" |
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