Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills.
|93 små dikt
I'll grow you a row of peonies,
a garden of teardrops
with my pain.
My bed's still cold.
Your perfume travels a thousand miles
as nightmares will not let me sleep.
No matter how small your gate,
I seek the key
that gains me entry.
I whisper into the vines,
"What wine could be pressed
by lips as full as yours?"
in the crowded clutter of the day,
emptiness engulfs me.
When will I forget you?
When will the next Ice Age cleanse this hill?
The boat oared down the river.
I saw you smiling, laughing.
I could only wave goodbye.
© 2005 Kåre Enga [162.121-137] 2005-05-13
There are 93 of these ... I think. I've counted again and again. Came up with between 91 and 95 many a time. Unless I'm missing a couple (could be) there are 93. I wrote them in a 4 hour period 3 years ago today, May 13th. A few could be considered GC by some, so don't read if easily offended.
The rest: "93 små dikt ORIGINAL"
I've tried to put my new poems in a chronological file so I can keep them organized. The folder hasn't been perfected yet, but this is where you'll find it: "Poetic journal Year 165 B.E." [18+]
Managed to get out of the house and down the path through Naismith Valley from 26th south. The "creek" can become a raging river during a downpour, but has some deeper pools in it when it becomes a trickle. Where there is water there is life.
Saw dogs and cats and bicyclists out for the evening. It got up to 75 for a minute, then cooled.
Revising. Also wrote a poem about the mountains of chat in Picher, Oklahoma (R.I.P.) I have photos somewhere ... that I took about 4 years ago. Picher was a major mining area and presently highly toxic. The tornado that blew through the other day flattened what little was left of it. The town will not be rebuilt.
The Oread bookstore:
Kansas: 59º and moonshine. ** Image ID #1295354 Unavailable ** .