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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: "'heart's home'" "In the midst of silence" "In search of Iris" "At three" "Koan on an October sky" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Winter: 18 Mas'il (December 29)" "Even in chaos ... More hockey poems." "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 |
| Penny Gandy (Crow Lovers fb group) So yesterday, I was letting my chickens free range in the pasture. It's always a risk where I live because there are predators, but I take all the precautions I can. I also have a family of crows that I have set up a feeding station for a year or two ago, that come every day. The crows get along fine with the chickens. Yesterday, I was outside as the chickens were grazing, and heard the crows in a loud and frantic event. They were just a few hundred yards away on the ground circling something. I hopped on my golf cart and starting heading that way and saw a hawk in the middle of them. As I approached I could see the hawk had one of my chickens. He flew off with all my crows in hot pursuit. Unfortunately my sweet little chicken did not survive. As I was wrapping her up, I could still see and hear the crows attacking the hawk, and when he took off to fly again they followed. I took my chicken down to bury her and came back to check on the rest. As I was sitting there, a crow came back to the spot she was attacked and seemed to be looking for her. After seeing she wasn't there, he flew off. While it was not a great event to watch play out, it was the first time I felt like the crows really do watch out over me and the other animals. I am very thankful for them. They will get extra peanuts today! There's a story in there... 71.765 |
| The lintels hugged the green turf at the back of the ruins, telling their stories to those who wandered that far. They spoke of the conquests of spirits in a tongue still spoken... elsewhere. Here only ghosts remembered the sacred spots and communal halls they once roamed. Only those who looked inside themselves could hear their laughter. They were long past suffering and anger. Neither had ever served them well. They'd let go of the baggage of living long ago. "Here we said prayers. This spot, yes, this is the spot where we fell in love, and where we died to the world. |
| He took his blinders off, amazed at what he could see. Unshackled he could move freely, without the earplugs hear birds sing. He grasped this new reality, sunrise, sunset, seeing a banjo, hearing it ping. He walked towards it as the holograph faded into a dream. This was not the reality of his upbringing, the way to Heaven, his purpose in life. He was meant to love coal, a miner, a horse carrying load after load, a black hole only lit by those in control of the switch. Light on. Light off. © Kåre Enga (17.september.2025) |
| Everyone seemed old growing up and one had to keep track of which Aunt Dot they were talking about. Big Dot, Little Dot, Dorothy. Thankfully Aunt Verna had her own name. And there were those never mentioned around children. Like Uncle Oscar who prostituted his daughter and thankfully fell off a float. Everyone knew everyone's faults but were closed mouth — unless they were drunk. I was the damaged fruit from a sober branch, not allowed to speak to family — the invisible silent one. But, even I knew who favored who and how my mother and aunt mixed like oil and water. That sad fair-haired child with a wan smile smile still plays hide-and-seek with his shadow. |
| Darkness has descended. Welcome Night! The Calvary of Crosses has gone to sleep having vanquished all those who wander by Day. n Those who reside in the liminal space of dusk and dawn — have fled. Starbearers and Cavedwellers watch the moles that moil beath our feet. Let us arise! And by the gods of Sirius... The skirmish was short and Melvin lay dead. The minions drag him into their dungeons where starfire didn't reach. The removed the medallion and choose another to carry on. It was the only force of Peace protecting against the Righteous who would destroy their home. Tomorrow they would sleep. But next dark Moon — Arise! © Kåre Enga (19.september.2025) |
| ...under napkins to collect sloshes, under a plate to keep it warm. Coffee doesn't care. It came from Ethiopia — they call it Aster — as in flowers or stars. I too came from afar. Born in a box to be labeled and sent off into space with nary a clue. I celebrate those who harvest the beans, that tell them they are worthy to be roasted and ground — then consumed. Harvesters may never see the world. But they have a home under the same stars that watch me add milk and sugar, then walk to my table with nary a spill. © Kåre Enga (28.september.2025) WC 100 |
| Frau Elise jumped out of the way. No one used their horn. It would be impolite and disturb the peace. Yes, her death would be regrettable but... she'd share the blame of being on the sidewalk at rush hour. Traffic was bad at 17:02 and the almost empty sidewalks were fair game. No one walked, especially when it was 34°. What was she thinking? It thundered. Frau Elise opened her umbrella and retrieved her walker, thankfully not damaged; and, like any good German, honked her horn at the calico cat to warn her that she was in her way. WC 95 |
| I save my hair. The colors change every decade. Blonde to platinum, brown to black, once a pale shade of pink and lavender. My hair above seldom matches my hair below. And in-between... it just curls as it grows. I do wish I had more hair... in the right places. I'll need to ask my barber whether he can clip my nose hairs and glue them to my eyelashes. I like hearing him laugh. I don't laugh at seeing my locks tumble to the floor. I wonder whether they miss me as much as I miss my youth when long hair blowing in the breeze was fashionable. One haircut, two haircuts, three. I need to ask my barber how long I need to let it grow so it can be made into a wig. They way I'm balding I'll need one when I die. 68398 |
| Resting-in-peace on a shoo-away-fly day, leaves fell, weary of dry heat. The sun peaked thru the haze but offered no warmth — or hope. Hoping to be consumed a cheery lemon-ginger scone jumped into someone's mouth. Stray thoughts were chewed by the lonely coffee-sipper: you too shall pass and be forgotten. Nothing happens to interrupt these ruminations. Life, once sought, sighs in the ennui of the shallow breathing of regrets: should'ves, could'ves, and oughts. The ghost of who-he-once-was cooing you should get up and shout! About what? The tree just shrugged and let go another leaf. He would leave soon enough. He turned to his inner child to say I'm sorry. The child embraced him and whispered, "takk for alt". © Kåre Enga (9.septembre.2025) Made into an item: 68.358 |
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