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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 |
| Here not here — Songkran 2568 Today, hills are tinting green; wary buds are getting ready. And in Bangkok it's hot and streamy. The mountains are alive with sleet and cold white rain. In Chiang Mai they splash water at each other. Montana's cold is slowly losing its grip. It's greening. Dusty soils await the rains in Sisaket. I'm inside at noon, writing in the cold and dreaming: Oh, to be dowsed in Udon Thani! © Kåre Enga (13.april.2025) [182.23] 122.781 |
| Where does the time go? When the clock strikes twenty-one, twenty-one, if you are still awake if I am still alive before our fight... When the clock strikes twenty-two, twenty-two, between tears and seconds spent we'll know by what's been shared that all is right... When the clock strikes thirty-one, thirty-one we've sent messages all night until dawn's reckoning. Sweet dreams, goodnight... © Kåre Enga [182.20] 10.april.25 Original in "Where does time go?"  |
| To all my ghosts No time to write a silly poem about war or peace, or chicken grease, something I know nothing about. Distracted by a piece of key lime pie, pieces of strawberries calling my name, potato chips and sundry things — life got in the way. No time for introspection or even a bath. Dead skin and ennui slough off in the shower. I didn't have time to write to you, to call out your name in vain, ghosts never answer the phone. I'm tired of being alone, tired of the echoes and ripples of the fading Past that will not let me go. Let me go! Where does the time go? I never kept track whilst I lived, and now I'll never know. So few find me hiding, fewer comment. I sent out photos of the sunset today, should send out Songkran blessings tomorrow. Postcards remain unsent. I sent a message to Wren — we're both getting old. I should feel blessed that I'm still getting older. Getting wiser is a ship that sailed without me — a long time ago. © Kåre Enga (12.april.2025) [182.21] 28 lines Original sketch in "Who knows where the time goes?" |
| Quiet after the storms Silence deafens after the storm until the wren sounds the all clear; all life thrills to their trill of joy: we live we live we live — we have survived. In the hush after the beating: the sound of steps walking away; they are heard through the tears, noted with a sigh, they will live — for one more day. The old oak has withstood the rain, a century of wind; today it rests in the bosom of mud that it once reigned over — gone with the storm. New headstones state that here they lie beneath the grass that greener grows, where no signs need proclaim with words: safe-at-last safe-at-last — do not disturb. © Kåre Enga [182.22] (12.april.2025) 20 lines Prompt: safety. Too abstract. What does safety sound like? Steps walking away? The silence after the storm? 122.773 |
| On a green day Today's a green day but humpbacks don't care. The week will go along as usual: orange, blue, purple, red, yellow, pink then green again and again. And — when will it end? In black or white, in marriage or death, devoid of color, only darkness and light, rearranging dots — to begin anew, when the humpbacks will guide our way back. © Kåre Enga (9.april.2025) [182.19] 8 lines Note: In Thailand each day of the week has a traditional color associated with it. Black and white are worn for funerals and white (and pastels) are common for weddings. Thought: Will whales welcome humanity back to our ancestral home? Prompt: hump day of the week. (original sketched in "Days of the week... today is a greening day." ) |
| Make up your mind, Spot! channeling Lady Macbeth The knife goes in; the blood squirts out. It takes time, like chopping up sprouts. Speaking of which, Out, out, damn Spot! Can't concentrate when I'm barked at. Pork needs to be cured, chickens plucked. What now, Spot? In or out? Oh, f***. Spilled duck blood. No, you can't have some. Add raisins to sweeten the plot. Watch it simmer; don't get distracted. Billy-boy sucked got it all wrong. I'd wring his scrawny neck but... Spot! Make up your mind! I'm not a monster, just misunderstood; I sent Cook this morning, back to Da Hood. I told him guests were due to arrive; and, Out, Spot, Out! I needed fresh chives. © Kåre Enga (7.april.2025) [182.17] 16-20 lines |
| October Blues Slow and low — I moan a serenade, sung in a minor key in hesitation, with hope, that the death between us are mere embers, sleeping, awaiting our touch. I warm my fingers by their glow, look around yet know — like the weary leaves, you left — for good — long ago. © Kåre Enga (7.april.2025) [182.16] 9 lines |
| For "PromptMaster !" PRIZE PROMPT 8 lines: "To see you again" I open up the fortune cookie: Three locks of hair. Two toenail clippings One withered finger. A scrap of paper. Four words in blood scrawled by your hand. Burn these by midnight so I can return. © Kåre Enga (5.april.2025) [182.14] TASK PROMPT 8 lines. "Impatience" When will I get to taste your lips? So — this grape juice will not suffice. Then, I'll truly rejoice and sip. Know I nibble but do not bite. I nibble but do not bite. Know I'll truly rejoice and sip. Then this grape juice will not suffice. So — will I get to taste you lips? When? © Kåre Enga (5.april.2025) [182.15] ![Merit Badge in Wisdom
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| Café de la mort The fragrance of life has left us bereft of memories of murmuring brooks, the taste of full lips, warm and eager. Our empty sockets gaze at nothingness but we sense your presence as bones touch bones, as thoughts wander off and mingle. There are no secrets in the Death Cafe, no shame, no fame, as our names are erased from history — by the Living. We do not blame them nor complain, for they will join us soon enough. © Kåre Enga (6.april.2025) [182.12] Prompt for April 6th: Death Cafe (Thai: คาเฟ่ตาย) 122.653 |
| Like the moon Give me a wife, who like the moon, won't appear in my sky every day — Chekov Luna reigns all night Apollo reins the Sun all day They meet at dawn and dusk while Twilight, a liminal love-child, delights us in mid-May. Stars are their constant lovers, through seasons of rain and dust. © Kåre Enga (6.april.2025)[182.13] 7 lines April 5 Prompt: Chekov |
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I just went with the flow. Could use a minor edit but I'm happy that you like it.
