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 Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
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Enga mellom Fjella  Sentinel Marked as if you own me I bow before the Bitterroots and just like you my rocky soil, my withered grass lays prey to the empty sky. © Kåre Enga 2007 "Sentinel"   Reader's Choice of Poems: "Sentinel" "In the midst of silence" "In search of Iris" "For Jeanette ... when she grows old" "Willowsong" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Doing and don'ting. A scene in 2nd person." "In a garden of roses, baby" "Tupac and more poetry" "Il pleure (poem). We R puddle-luscious, aujourd'hui." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
The big wave hit and Ander's family died. The stars went out and his inner compass went astray. Everyone lied to him that he'd find his way. Not today. Some day. He's waiting for that day. Monday morning he dressed in yellow to appease the ancestors gathered at the shrine. He bought two bouquets of orchids to place by his sister's ashes. His brother had been lost and his body never found. He felt bound by customs not-his-own. Yellow marigolds and blue sky, like the flag of Sweden had greeted the morning. Just another day in Phuket. They'd died. He'd never left. He'd been in Hua Hin that day on business. His two younger siblings had come to visit but wanted a day of fun and sun and left the city to seek the sand. It wasn't the sun and sand that killed them. 20 years... Every Monday he dressed in yellow in remembrance, donned a suit the other days, grey with his favorite pink shirt tomorrow. The old Thais respected his sorrow. His coworkers were used to his quirks and locals who knew his story understood that he still carried his grief in his briefcase. They gently advised him to set it down and walk away. But, no matter how many times he tried to flee his memories waited patiently for him to return. He rarely spoke Swedish. English and Mandarin were the language of trade and commerce. Anders was fluent in both. At home he spoke Thai, taking comfort in the daily kao pad the maid prepared while her children added laughter. Gung always differed to him as master of the house. He knew she was the master of the kitchen. On the 17th of May she always made meatballs for his husband. Damn Norwegian. He smiled at that. Erik always made him smile. His mother was Lao from a small village near Khon Kaen, his father a refugee from a frigid island off the coast of Narvik. Erik had used his good looks and rice-field charm to trap him. Anders didn't mind. Not at all. To him, this three bedroom house was his in name only. Erik was his home. Oh, he made more money but without Erik there was no home. Today — he laid more offerings by the tsunami monument. More flowers, tied with yellow and blue ribbons — a token remembrance. That day — Erik had held him — and every day since. Those who said Norwegians were cold and distant had never been hugged by Erik. Erik had trimmed the jasmine, brought in a few flowers to float in a bowl of water. Their fragrance fill the room as he placed one yellow rose by Ander's place at the table. Last week he'd bought a red one, but today was special. Tonight he'd take his lover to see the stars. Max and Bank helped while Gung nodded. The children were so polite, so full of joy; albeit, a bit mischievous. Even Anders had melted. Erik could provide enough love for the two of them but Erik had insisted that they rent a larger place so they could all live together. Gung's family was pleased with the arrangement. No one dared bother her with Anders as guardian, and the children adored Erik. Yes, the family knew about the two gentlemen but no one cared except for Mes, the older brother — who was jealous. He favored Anders but Erik said no to a threesome. Two was enough. More than enough. Would the stars be enough? Outside the city the dark night awaited. The moon was spent and in hiding. The skies weren't the same as in Upsala, Anders had once stated. Tonight they'd consult the skies together; and, perhaps, Anders could finally find his way back to himself after being lost these 20 long years. ... Sultry nights, one after the other, had staked their claim on Anders; but, tonight the stars would tell another story. Or... so Erik hoped. He looked up, The Cross in the southern sky was beckoning. He'd driven driven towards the mountains, no need to go far to escape the city lights. He'd thought about hiring a boat to go out to sea, far from the city's shore; but, Anders still didn't trust water. 20 years... They were middle-aged and not so slim. Anders was getting grey by the temples. More than 20 years together... They'd gotten married as soon as the courts and His Highness gave the blessing. Thousands had planned extravaganzas of silk, satin and lace. They'd kept it simple. Anders had no one but Erik after Carl and Kirsten's deaths had left him bereft. Their parents pined away soon after. Anders never called his cousins. Just Gung and Erik's mother were there to hear their vows. Max had blown up balloons and Bank had bought six cupcakes. Would the stars speak tonight? They stopped at a 7/11 to quench their thirst. Erik bought a strawberry milk for his husband, an iced coffee for himself. He planned on staying awake. They sat in chairs they'd brought, silent hand-in-hand. "I'm okay, you know." "Yes, I know." "I'm not unhappy." In the stillness, the fragrance of jasmine surrounded them until the stars broke their silence. © Kåre Enga (31.juli.2025) 875 words 67.688 |
| The Search "Share Your Faith" What aspect of your faith journey are you currently exploring or seeking clarity on? Submitted:
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| Not-so-kinder eggs I was fired by DOGE and y'know about the price of eggs so I snuck my 3 kids into the White House egg hunt. They collected 9 eggs. I was hoping for a dozen. *sigh* Anyhoo, they each were painted, with pretty ribbons and a message. What did they say! Well...  Happy Easter to all, including the Radical Left Lunatics.  [you're] scheming so hard to bring Murderers, Drug Lords, Dangerous Prisoners, the Mentally Insane.I had to stop to breathe. My job was in enforcement.  [you let] well known MS-13 Gang Members and Wife Beaters, back into our Country. Happy Easter also to the WEAK and INEFFECTIVE Judges and Law Enforcement Officials. [you] are allowing this sinister attack on our Nation to continue. [you allowed] an attack so violent that it will never be forgotten!At this point I has hoping no one had seen me, hoping they'd forgotten my face.  [you] manipulated the Auto Pen (perhaps our REAL President!).I started to laugh and cried out, I wish!  [you] CHEATED in the 2020 Presidential Election in order to get this highly destructive Moron Elected I wish you, with great love, sincerity, and affection, a very Happy Easter!!!I took photos, then threw out the ribbons, put the messages around a staked voodoo doll, and burned them all. And the eggs? I never waste eggs — too expensive. I peeled them — carefully (hoping they weren't coated with poison or injected with venom), then cut them in two, removed the yeller yolks and placed them on my dead grandmother's platter hoping she wasn't spinning in her grave. Who came? Well Big Balls showed up offering to help; but, I'd already put my knives away. How did you serve them? Deviled. wc ~292 |
| Black feathers The Old Crow alighted on the rocks and spoke to us. "There's more to the color green than money, more fragrance in flowers than a pile of filthy old bills you exchange for rust-bucket toys. The sound of a babbling brook is musical in more ways than words of hate and vengeance ever will be. We listened in silence. Crows remember, and aren't beyond retaliation themselves. Silence seemed safer. "You say nothing and do less. Neither acquiescence nor apathy will save you." The wind picked up in hopes of ruffling our feathers. We wrapped our ignorance tighter around us to protect us from the storm that was surely coming. "You arise from dust and return as such but forget to stay grounded while alive. You will die soon enough." We shifted sore butts in hope... "There is no hope in avoiding suffering, only the courage to accept and let go." We stared at the gathering clouds. "You cannot wish away the rain without condemning others to a flood, nor wish for sun without starvation and drought." It was as if our thoughts were being read. "I'm not a mind-reader; but, I have countless seasons of experience. I've also listened to the wisdom of generations of my kind. We hold onto knowledge in our collective memory." Old Crow arose and stood before us, giving each one a black feather as the storm broke in a rush of wind and hail, leaving us with but a word. "Remember." © Kåre Enga (8.april.2025) [182.18] ~250 wc |
| Won Hook with: "Round 21 " "I look like you. I speak like you. I'm not you." "How do you know?" AiX looked around the room of centuplets. "My barcode is different from yours." 65.504 |
| The bell rang for the vesper hour. It was time for Brother Jesse to enter and begin to chant. All chores not-yet-done would have to wait. He smiled at the mice scurrying around the kitchen. There was only so much time to gather the crumbs left over from the afternoon cake. The monks would not suffer them to be seen after prayers. The music of the monks soothed the mice as they hurried. No one worried at Saint Mary of the Seas. High and dry overlooking Dingle bay and the woolly land lice, life went on regardless of the tempests storming the world. There was a time to bake, a time to eat, a time to gather crumbs, and always time for prayers. The mice knew the routines of each and every monk. The vesper hour and the calm before twilight was everyone's favorite time of day. Tonight though... tonight the bells began to toll and the music became screeching bagpipes, fireworks, sirens and bombs. There was no time to sneak a piece of cake or even sweep up the crumbs. Mice and monks looked around in shock as warriors clashed outside the walls. The doors were bolted shut. The cacophony outside had shattered the harmonies inside Saint Mary of the Seas. Brother Jesse and the monks chanted all night long, their quavering voices pleading. The mice huddled in forgotten corners. By morning's light the green grass was black and bloody. Matins would have to wait. The weary monks went in search of the wounded but still living. They chanted prayers over the dead. The bells stayed silent and the mice? The mice sat with their crumbs and gave thanks for what they had gathered. Brother Jesse sighed. There would be no cake baked today. © Kåre Enga (21.mars.2025) [182.1] Prompts: bell, cake, music. Flash ~296 words (won daily contest) |
| The trickster quietly entered the burrow by way of its exit, plainly marked EXIT. He didn't expect to catch Mr Badger at home. The word in the woods was that he was away visiting his niece. "Come sit with me awhile. I'll put on tea." The intruder wrapped his tail around himself and decided it would be best to just sit on the proffered pillow and not ask questions. And... it was raining outside. "It's... nice and cozy in here." "Yes, Beatrix likes it that way." He noticed a small frame hanging over a writing table. "Is that... ?" "Here's your cup. It's a tad hot. Sorry." "If that's Miss... well she owes me a story." "How so?" "I remember her watching me by the Chicken Coop taking notes." "Do tell." "You sound amused. No. I wasn't counting chickens. I only eat mice... now and then... and an occasional..." The front door opened and in walked Miss Potter herself. "Good evening Mr Badger. Mr Grahame is visiting and I wondered whether you could lend us some honey. Tommy Brock stole all of mine." "Certainly." "Ahem... Mr Tod... Still upset about that story I didn't write?" "I wasn't stealing chickens." "I know. While you were counting chickens I was counting mice." If a smile could kill, the wily fox thought. "Counted three times. Thankfully none were missing." Mr. Badger brought a jar of honey and a steaming cup for Miss Potter. The silence was deafening. "I've finished my tea. Time to Go." Mr Tod nodded to Mr Badger and Miss Potter and quickly departed through the front door, plainly marked ENTRANCE. "You are smirking, Beatrix." "Yes, I feel the urge to write." © Kåre Enga (21.februar.2025) |
| The Black Brick The black doorstop hadn't moved in decades. No one bothered it or the door it held ajar for the cats and cockroaches, its only visitors. The last human who'd dared to disturb its dust was a child with long blond hair. He'd found it to be too heavy for his tiny hands. They'd be wrinkled by now and those strands would be grey... if he had any left. It was proud to have kept its secret for so long. When was it placed here? Only the rotted bones in the oubliette would know. If bones could speak... Its sleep was disturbed by a rush of damp breeze. Rain? Someone must've opened the outer door to the bricked up passageway. "My grandfather said he came this way as a child." "Spooky." They both sneezed. "And dusty." The doorstop waited silently. "There's another door!" They passed the old brick by. "What's this hole?" "Bones!" Their screams could've wakened the dead. On their way out one tripped over the brick, their boots scraping off black paint revealing a glimmer of... "Look!" "Gold!" They tried to lift it. "Too heavy." "Let's come back tomorrow." But they never did. It was November 9th... The Night of Broken Glass. A new noise? Laughter? Two voices tinkled like wineglasses. "I wonder what this was?" "Maybe a bunker? A cellar? A dungeon?" More laughter. "Afraid of ghosts?" "Never! You'd scare them all away." "What's this?" The brick glimmered in anticipation. "Just a yellow brick painted black." "It's heavy." "Leave it." They went through the door. "Nothing here but a hole with old bones. Let's go." The black brick had enjoyed the interruption. It chuckled as it went back to sleep. © Kåre Enga (7.februar.2025) ~285 words. |
| He ain't no virgin! "The Witch is back and there's hell to pay." —Winifred, Hocus Pocus The door slammed open. "Bing bang the Bitch is back! I see Donald's up to his usual shenanigans but I'm looking for a virgin." Winifred looked peeved. She always looked peeved. Her exile hadn't suited her. Her side kicks had abandoned her and her used broom was making her itch. "Fleas", she grumbled. "Fleas!" The barmaid hid under a table. The bartender fainted. Winifred didn't notice. She wasn't interested. "Where's that kid?" Max stood up and strode over to her. "Well, I'm old. And don't think you can get lucky again. I'm not a virgin." "Children?" The gleam in Winifred's eye said it all. "Nope." Winifred slumped. "You're out of luck. But... if you need a ride to the cemetery..." Winifred started to mumble and twitch her fingers. "That won't work." Wide eyed but curious, Winifred mouthed "why?" Max laughed. "I've invested in every ward in the world. Would you like a gummy?" Winifred turned and fled as fast as her bad leg would allow her. "I would've given her a ride to the Senior Center if she would've let me." Max sighed. "It's hard getting old, even for an old witch with dementia." © Kåre Enga (29.oktober.2024) ~205 words |
| Little rays of sunshine "I never drink...wine." — Dracula Break out the glasses and cut of their heads. I have a headache. I'm off to bed. We'd have much to be thankful for if you would. Now... don't spill a drop. Waste not want not. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine"   The party was getting out of hand. Melinda and Belinda were pulling each other's polyester wigs and the Count was dancing on the tables. Who had spiked their drinks? You'd think that Draqquie would be more careful what he invites to these shindigs. Last time... Hmm... I wonder. Pauletta and I made the rounds. We were attached at the hip so that was a swirling task as we faced opposite directions. No one cared. Pauletta is/was/will-forever-be a force of nature. No one got in our way. No one dared. We whispered in each others ear. Do you think? Did you see? WHAT WAS THAT! Apparently Lizzy was in a tizzy because Donnie wouldn't stop sucking on her... and she fell from the chandelier and crashed through the floor. Bats. Crazy bats. She should've just spread her wings. The party broke up just before dawn. And that's when we realized that someone hadn't turned off the grow lights in the orchid house. A little too much "sun" had driven everyone mad. Sad really. They'd be hung over until the Day of the Dead... if they lived that long. If not... We would see them then. And as Pauletta reminded me, again and again. © Kåre Enga (27.oktober.2024) ~250 words |
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