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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: "Zmitri" "In the midst of silence" "Tales told over scones and hot tea" "La Bella Vita" "Willowsong" 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)" "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "A Thanksgiving Dinner poem and the WDC Zoo" "ENFP, what are you?" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| For "Invalid Item" Julia was visiting Dingle for the first time since she left Tra Li in 1853 The sea breeze freshened her face as she looked around at the sailboats. She was mighty thirsty. MacCartaigh Bar promised a glass of Guinness that she should not drink. Thankfully, it was closed. And the pub that offered fish and chip with mushy peas was closed too. She sighed as clouds closed in to pea soup and drizzle. Ah, it did, it did. 'Twas a great day to be Irish. Lucky? define that. It's true that she had been dead well over 100 years but what did that have to do with the price of cál ceannann (colcannon)? At least they were growing potatoes again. And the roses bloomed in May in Tra Li. As they always did. County Kerry was home. She wasn't McCarthy Mor, but she was a McCarthy none-the-less. She sat down to watch the sailboats and dreamt of taking back Caseal Rock for her clan. Nasty O'Briens. History lingered in every forgotten graveyard, whispered from headstone to headstone, bantered between bones. Better to not listen too closely. They gossiped like old widowers. She cackled about that. Off to America they told her. Herself had married a Hooker. Now her great-grand-children were all dead. Except one. She waited impatiently. Julia wanted to show her her Eire land, verdent, misty with muck. When would her great-grand-daughter die. Suredly, it would be on a great day to be Irish! |
| It was the getting up to pee. Hit or miss. Take another sip of water. Do not dehydrate, they told me. Every hour. Aches and pains, toss and turn. Ears, jaw, arm. The refusal of my leg to support my weight, the wobble, the fear of falling. I didn't dream. I just stressed. I napped eyes reluctantly fluttering to chills and fever. I left my door unlocked so they wouldn't have to break down my door to retrieve my putrefying flesh. The following night I slept better than I slept in years. It won't be the virus that kills me. |
| ...GO TO THE GATE... THE DOORS ARE ABOUT TO CLOSE... She was beautiful, looked 35 (was 50)... We were deep in conversation. Kristina was bound for Copenhagen. My flight headed for Munich. "Where are you from?" "Sweden." "My family came from Småland. I really liked Sweden, but I didn't care for Lund." "That's where I'm from." How to correct my faux-pas? "I went there to see a friend Anna-Lisa Harling." "That's my sister!" We took a selfie, sent it to Anna-Lisa. "OMG, You've met my sister!" Anna-Lisa was shocked. We just laughed. Such a chance encounter. Almost missed my flight. |
Yeah, dere wuz! 'N more. Lemme tell'ya... 'Er wuz dizzy y'see. Always wuz 'n always will be. Excuses, I tell'ya. 'N a bit tipsy... iff'n y'know wut I mean. 'N mean! Wudna lemme 'elp 'er.  Old coot. Jus' 'cuz 'er two days older'n me don' mean 'er can treat me dat way. Anyhoo. 'Er done dropt 'er ring in da coffee. 'Ad a fit 'er did, 'er did. It wudna been so bad... but... noooooo... When I fisht it out 'er teet' near bit me!  Dentures. 'Er done dropt'm in da coffee too. Old coot. Laffin' 'n laffin' at me.  |
| Without light there are no shadows, without pain no knowledge of joy I hide underneath stairs until there's no glimmer of light. At twilight I can move about without my familiar. I prefer clouds. Snow storms are best. Stars just twinkle; but ... they don't know Shadow. I was born with him. We're twins joined at the foot. We never talk. My aunt always sings, till all pain becomes one with joy and all darkness merges with light She was born with a shadow too. She doesn't seem to mind. still each New Moon beams innocent until shadows start to appear. |
| You were never my valentine And I was green. Green as green could be until you turned blue, holding your breath and waiting for my response. I couldn't tell you then and you've been dead for 50 years. I suppose I could tell you now. I still see your kind eyes, sad that I never got to hold what lay behind them. two saplings lean towards each other recollections There's nothing left but a single image sketched in a yearbook, and a friend who resembles you in so many ways. He was born nine months after your accident. I haven't seen him in years. Yes, he knows how deeply I feel. Now I'm the one who waits. We may never meet again this lifetime. like eternal hope in the wind — years pass like Kansas dust Not all things match up. Not all ends meet where they can be tied and bound together. Your winter will become my autumn; your summer my beloved's spring. Seasons recycle in a spiral, but never return the same. I remember your name. Do you remember my silence? all thoughts fade lost to the recycle bin year after year But your visage remains emblazoned while I weep. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [178.359] (9.februar.2022) ~200 words  2nd place February 2022 "The Taboo Words Contest ~ On Hiatus" |
| There was a time I held the key to your heart. Once there was time. No more. I hear an adagio from the cellist next door. Better than the explosions coming closer. Soon. Very soon. Why lament about life when there's so little left. I should ask him for a beer. You would find that funny. I still don't drink beer. Lips that taste wine... Your lips are not near. And they are dust. Has it been fifty years? There's no story left untold, to be scratched with your key. I glance at my watch and wait. Soon. Very soon. |
| In the Land of Salt, the scaphe indicated 2 hours before noon. Saramy thought: Soon it would be too hot to work in the saltern. Let the Sun do it's job. It always did. The stone circle around the center of town kept track of the passing year, indicating that the Season of Cold would come soon, even if the temperatures were still toasty. Saramy peered at them as he headed home to his hovel. It wasn't much but he marvelled in its antiquity, tracing faint figures caved into the walls as if they could speak and share their secrets. At least it was cool underground. He had so much work to do. "History of Salt" needed copying from notes that would crumble and fade, to clay that wouldn't. Once baked into tiles they would adorn town walls that kept history present before them. Would they speak to those who come here a thousand years from now? Saramy started impressing the clay, adding doodles, and translations into the 5 languages he knew, always signing it with the town's motto: "We come from salt we return to salt". |
| The dogs are acting antsy. Put them in the car. The kids are whiny. Put them in the car. My bags are packed. Let's go. What about... Yellowstone's about to blow. If we don't leave now... Yeah, yeah. You've been saying that for... ...the house will be buried and we'll be buried if. we. don't. leave. now. Okay. Okay. Let me just grab the house keys. *sigh* Did you call your sister? She's doesn't like it when we drop in. BASTA! I'm leaving in two minutes with or without you! But... honey... Don't "honey" me. Did you feel that tremor? |
| When the bombs fell the books burned. 400 years of rebellion against the overlords now rocking the arabesques in the mosque as the minaret was blown to pieces. The Serbs, the Serbs, the Serbs... Did the old bones in the cemetery notice? Are you a Serb? Xhamia e Hadumit still stands above its waters and peace reigns until... Are you a Serb? Centuries of sores, the scabs torn off. The river still flows but the market? Destroyed. But rebuilt. Do you wonder who I am? Do the invisible cast visible shadows? Who asks? Are you Serb? |
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