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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" "Glice" "In search of Iris" "At three" "Drugs sold here" 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)" "In a garden of roses, baby" "A Thanksgiving Dinner poem and the WDC Zoo" "James Doohan, Scotty. Ombra mai fu. Eutin Guitar Orchestra" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Grandmother made us pick nasturtiums from big white tires. Morning glories along the porch bloomed blue, snow-on-the-mountain white, portulaca? I loved planting marigolds in my own garden. I started at nine. Now? I remember cosmos and how generous they were. |
| "Beginning is tough; but, OMG, you do you; don't do Sally; only Sally can do Sally... and one Sally doing Sally is more than my heart can take! Bless her. Now pass the collards and black-eyed peas. I must admit that Sally's daughter Sarabel Lee knows how to cook. Just the right amount of bacon grease for the collards and the peas are soft but not mushy. Now about you. Not everyone can become a sheriff. It's more than sharp-shooting down on the range; but, you know that. You never did like to waste bullets and you do have a heart. And this town needs a sheriff with a heart, I'll have you know. Too bad Old Tom's ticker gave out on his 80th birthday. Now, he knew how to handle Sally. Yes, sirree. Pass the mashed potatoes, please. Yep, he'd please-and-thank-you all day long when Sal-Old-Gal showed up with shoo-fly pie. Yep. He knew how to handle Sally and that wannabe gang that always hung around her like a rhinestone necklace. But, you do you. Old Tom's ghost won't haunt you. Sally? Can't make no promises about that." © Kåre Enga [179.120] (2.januar.2023) For "Invalid Item" ~191 words |
| 1. "What's with the orb?" Naga had heard that question for over 200 years and always wondered... how many more times could they safely ignore it... before... The orb protected their soul. It had guided them through darkness and light, danger and safety. To Naga it was never clear which was which. But the orb knew. Naga nodded, smiled and said nothing. They avoided people whenever they could. The balance of yin and yang that flowed through them changed with the phases of the moon. They had learned that most humans couldn't handle that. They had been born a boy along the Mekong when the bubbles burst forth in fireballs as they did every Full moon in October. But family became concerned by their androgynous appearance and behavior as they wore a dress as comfortably as a sword. Neighbors whispered that they were the child of Phaya Nak, Guardian of the Mekong. Every New Year they felt a masculine arousal. Every New Moon they felt the pull of Mother Earth's womb. Tomorrow would be the beginning of another cycle. Naga had traveled north to the mountains of Yunnan in search of the Source of her Being. The orb lead the way. Now the orb glowed green. They scurried through the broken stones. Danger was approaching. They found a tree and leaned their back into it. A shimmering figure clothed in white shuffled silently through the snow. "Go away", they whispered. "I won't buy what you're selling." "Not even if it will take you to your destiny?" "Not even then." Naga knew their destiny. It was the path they needed to focus on. "But..." "There are no shortcuts to your proffered Heaven, only a highway to a promised Hell." The figure vanished as they knew it would, as so many had vanished before. Before. So many boring "befores". The centuries of searching for their Source were wearing them down. There was little new to amuse them in their wanderings. They glanced once at the small box left behind, turned and continued trudging through the snow. Some paths needed to be made not followed. Naga ignored the encounter. Curiosity had killed the cat. Many a dragon and wolf had cajoled them with that. Mere words. But a snow tiger had shown them what it really meant with its fangs, claws and bad breath. They had been doubly wary ever since. "Are your a witch or a warlock." They turned to find a small bundle of fur jumping from footprint to footprint. That it could talk did not surprise them. That it was rainbow colored merely amused them. That it somehow knew what they were... nah, that was no mystery to non-humans. It was its cuteness that frightened them. They'd have to reinforce their mental and emotional guards. Naga muttered some words under their breath. "That may protect you from me but ancient worn-out words won't protect you from yourself." This was no newborn kitten. "You try to hide your true self. You divide yourself into pieces and then arm each one with weapons. You wander around as if lost." Naga's nostrils flared. "The orb is your problem." They gasped. "The soul that has been trapped in it wants to be set free." 2. Naga trudged, leaving footprints that Fluff followed. Everything had to have a name they figured. They couldn't pronounce whatever Fluff had said was his... hers... its? They were uncertain and uncaring. Naga herself was half female, half male... both and neither. The mountains soaring above them promised nothing but ice; the path through the plains promised nothing but freezing cold. There was only one set of footprints though. Fluff didn't trust the soft loose snow. Neither did Naga as they plowed through hard-packed drifts and strolled through snow demons that appeared out of nowhere. Neither fazed them as their globe glittered in amusement. "When will you release your soul? Why not now?" Fluff had a knack of asking annoying questions. They broke their vow of silence to answer. "Where not when." "Why not here?" A good question. But they weren't at the Source and... they needed the orb to guide them to it. "And after centuries of going around in circles you still trust the orb?" Fluff was a pain in their unending cycles, an eddy in their steady flow. They planted their staff in a snow bank and turned to face Fluff. They saw the faces of their forefathers dancing in its eyes. 3. "This is a good place as any." "Yes, it's time." A litany of intercession washed over them, wafted through them, entered places long locked, the keys lost. They could smell the earth thawing, buds eager to burst forth. The mountains chimed in their crystal cathedrals, icicles tinkled, the snow became a blanket of warmth. Naga dared not move. "They are frightened." "Yes, they are." "Yes, they both are." "Forgive us, forgive us, forgive us..." They let out a scream, a descant, a booming bass. A landslide threatened to bury them all. The orb cracked. "We accept you as you are." "Accept yourself." "We are sorry." Naga fell to the ground. The snow-mounds broke their fall. The cold flakes coming down blanketed their weary form as Fluff perched on top of their head and purred. 4. Naga sat up suddenly. Fluff growled at being disturbed, then spoke. "You're awake." The shattered orb sat at Naga's feet. "My orb!" "Yes. It broke into shards. You won't need it from here on." "The voices..." "...are gone." "But..." "You're you now." Naga looked in a melted puddle. The face grimacing back was soft, somehow familiar, albeit with a scanty beard. Was it half male, half female? Both? "You'll get used to it." "This is the Source?" "No. The Source was always within you. Your soul remained protected in the orb until you were ready to let it rejoin you. Now you are one. Now you can stop wandering." Naga looked around and saw a flower blooming. "How long have I been here?" "Long enough. But now I must go. I despise rain and mud." It began to sprinkle as Fluff disappeared in a puff of rainbow colored air. © Kåre Enga [179.116] (31.desember.2022) ~1035 words... based on the image 2175395. |
| We don't know where it comes from but it's there — an orange glow just out of sight, a reflection in the corner of the eye. A mirage. But orange, definitely orange. It's Thursday and today is an orange day and Jupiter pulls at our thoughts. Or... at least it pulls on mine. I'd live in Moonbase 8 on Europa if they ever let me out of this hellish prison. I suspect the orange glow comes from outside. I'd trade it for water and cooler surroundings. The day glows long and never ending. I sleep when I can. It doesn't matter. The song — what else to call it? — will announce the arrival of food. I don't ask and no one offers to tell me what the food actually is. It wouldn't matter if they tried. I don't speak the language here. I just hope it isn't recycled alien protein. I haven't seen one of my neighbors in a couple days. Of course, I'm an alien too. That glow... I tried to find its source once but a big blob stood in my way. I can read a smirk, a sneer, a threat. I've been on a few worlds. I know how to survive by becoming harmless and invisible. I just turned around and sauntered away slowly as if I hadn't noticed anything. Now the light is changing hue. Reddish then purple then violet then. Is it Friday already? Days matter little when one doesn't know when or how or whether one will be released — nor to where. It was a blue day when I woke up here — many days, months, years ago. My body has changed since then. It's so important to be flexible. Let the muscles, blood-flow, thoughts rearrange themselves and align to a new reality. To maintain the old is to lose the future by not living in the now. 'Now' is a kaleidoscope of shifting rainbows. Now the glow is definitely blue. Yes, it's Friday. Long ago I promised to become a better person. I traveled around my city, my region, my world — even visited that once fertile planet called Earth. But that was such a disappointment. So much hype, so many ruins, the locals so unfriendly. Mars was more sedate and Neptune a gas! Ah, gas. They must've used gas to capture me. I didn't smell it. And here I am. An alien surrounded by other aliens. Oh, good news! My neighbor just slid past. I'm used to the slime by now. He, she, they... seem to be harmless, a friendly sort. Probably just trying to survive like I am. Well. The sky is singing and it's time to eat. I'll continue writing to you later. You are always in my thoughts. Perhaps that's the light I cannot see, the one that keeps me going. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.83] (25.oktober.2022) Word count: 471 |
| I want to keep a list of books I'm 'returning': 37. Watermusic by Sarah Sargent. YA, pleasant read. Moral. 36. Me Two by Mary C. Ryan. YA, pleasant read. The idea is to get rid of at least 65 more. Listing them should help me let go. |
| I have felt like a stranger in a strange land. Kindergarten was brutal. It barely got better. I didn't connect with the other kids and never did learn how to make new friends. High school was a landmine of hormones and misplaced emotion. I withdrew until my senior year. And even then, keeping book for the basketball and baseball teams, I felt more like a mascot than a part of anything. I did join chorale in junior high, but was too shy to sing in fron of others and cringed at the thought of spending my summer with them or going on overnight trips. I preferred my own bed, snug in the safe-from-tornadoes south-west corner. When I went to university I had to adapt to a different landscape. I flourished... until I didn't. Roommates make a huge difference. And I didn't get that memo. I transfered to a university out-of-state and once again started to bloom like a sunflower (a bit cliche since I was in Kansas). But I was still a stranger in a strange land. A year abroad in Costa Rica made me aware of how unprepared I was for the world. By the time I'd lost my passport and plane tickets in Peru... I no longer cared. Once back I decided to stay in Kansas, moving to a small farming town and then to a larger town in the Czech-lands of Nebraska. All of this mattered when I moved to two inner city neighborhoods with people I had never interacted with. Finally, another small city was my un-doing. I escaped to Oklahoma to heal; but, scars were torn off when I became homeless in Kansas (third time was not a charm). Finally Montana, another surprise, at least to me. In all my global travels since, the words to this song speak to me. Stranger In a stranger’s land New chance to know who I am If I have the strength To begin again Note: Dimash has a range of C2 to D8. He plays multiple instruments and sings in multiple languages. He is one of the greatest singers of all time. He's from Kazakhstan. New ground Far as I can see New ground Underneath my feet Stranger In a stranger’s land New chance to know who I am If I have the strength To begin again Somewhere in my heart in ancient times I wandered Through these valleys I have climbed among these hills Faces from a past I’m haunted by their mem’ries Lives and loves I’ve lost I feel them in me still New ground Far as I can see New ground Underneath my feet Stranger In a stranger’s land New chance to know who I am If I have the strength To begin again 3× For:
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| Dancing in the earthlight I don't care — anywhere The sky river floats above us, goes places we've never been. Can you meet me tonight? Look up at the Moon, whisper a prayer, soft, so the neighbors don't hear. Can you meet me on the far side? More private there. Not like the last time. You picked me up. We went to the airport to see a friend off. I had told you to bring a passport to get through security. You laughed and asked which one? Waiting, you wanted lunch. So we saw our friend off and then I suggested breakfast in Lisbon, waving the tickets I had bought that morning. It was fun. Off on the wings of a jet, going somewhere we'd never been. Who cares if the seats were thin and our legs were cramped and you found the food to be so-so. I thought it was lousy. At least they didn't lose our luggage, you quipped. What luggage? We went on a shopping trip in the Baixa, O Chiado, Bairro Alto. You wondered where we were staying. I don't care — anywhere I sang it, as you roared in delight. Luckily The Independente had a vacant suite. And dinner at The Decadente was superb. That night we sat in the rain at the overlook looking over Lisbon at the lit castle and Alfama. We didn't care... until lightning warned us to go back in. It was a delightful night, a delightful week. Breakfast every morning listening to Lourdes sing as she dispensed orange juice and coffee with warm milk, croissants and pears, ham and cheese. One can get use to a cheerful Brazilian face entertaining us with "La Vie en Rose", especially when sung in French, and on-key. Oh, to visit Brazil some day! We met guests from here and there. You spoke. I listened. Mostly, I was just enamored by your voice fluttering under that mop of red hair. But, Portugal wasn't private. I thought it was. Sorry about that. Great time pounding the pavement in Lisbon; until, it pounded back. My legs were so sore! It's what you wore that caught their attention. Flaming red hair the color of carnations on the 25th of April. A dress festooned with carnations. Did you know it was the commemoration of the Carnation Revolution1. You seemed so joyful as you joined the parade and dance to the video-cameras. Did you know that Leftists are considered Commies back home? Did you care? I didn't, but your colleagues did. Word had gotten out. They were in an uproar as they watched you prancing about. They melted like snowflakes on the plains of Spain... in July. Nothing you said mattered. At least they only fired you, only denied you any compensation, they didn't complain to the President or the Pope... yet. And they saved the rope for me. Thank you for the warning. I don't care — anywhere So, let's meet on the Moon this time. Fly to China, see if they have room on the next flight of the Stellar Delight. I can afford it. Freeing the bank of its capitalist burden the day before they came after me paid off. It helped to be a trusted employee with proper connections, and keys to the vault. It's all been properly laundered. No worries. And no hurry. I'd just like to see you, red hair aflame, dancing in the earthlight. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.51] (31 juli.2022) Word count: ~580 Prompt: "La Vie En Rose": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NK9zdPj-os Footnotes |
| Along the Po I "No vamps ... really? We used to be vamps but now that we're reformed we're politicians." "No politicians either." "Gangsters?" "Yeah, yeah, but they're a dime a dozen." "You remember dimes?" "Can you count to a dozen? Now, get outta here!" II The store was on the main drag, Prada on one side, Kors on the other. Just a PAM2 snuggled in where it didn't belong. The Shop was on the second floor. Looked like any pawn shop with the usual guitars, computers and a motorbike (the lift was in back). There wasn't much dust, except on the display of vintage dolls. Not one Chucky. I made sure. It's not that I have an unreasonable fear of dolls; but, I've met Chucky. "I need some cash." "I need some collateral." We all have needs. III Torino3 is known for it's palace, Museo Egizio, it's arcaded walkways. Advice? Best not to wander along the Po4 alone. I was looking for mommies-to-be or mummies-to-be. Didn't care which. They were both equally useless and mysterious to me. I didn't kill the unborn, no matter how tasty, and mummies were tasteless once the blood was drained. I wanted a Bloody Mary! After that six-pack, I sure didn't need one. I was dressed up like Dracula. Since there was a festival in town, no one lounging under the old trees in Giardino Sambuy5 blinked an eye. I had always wanted to be Dracula; but I feinted at the sight of blood. I drank it from a bottle in a brown paper bag instead. I was a blood-junky. Vickie was my dealer. I never asked for its provenance. Any year, any type, was good enough. I never had enough cash for the fresh stuff. IV "You're bill comes to $500." The shock on my face made Vickie flash her Colgate-white6 teeth. "...or your youngest child." "I... I ... I don't have any children." "What type are you?" "Type? ... Single? Average?" "I meant A, B, AB, O. Positive or negative? "B positive." "Oh, I am." Vickie flashed those teeth again. "Too bad you aren't O negative. There's a premium for that." V The blood bank didn't pay much; but, nether did working at PAM. A side hustle of servicing the lonely and needy didn't bring in much. At least I didn't starve. PAM was cheap and I got a discount. Sleeping in the back of the pawnshop was rough though. I kept it free of vermin and 'discouraged' anyone trying to sneak in. About the Po... it was running low; but, that didn't keep folks away. There were places to hide or at least be unobserved. Should someone fall into the river unnoticed... did they make a sound? Not if their throats were slit. Not that I would know... So. I kept mental notes of everyone's needs. Blackmailing the local priests and politicians was lucrative; but, they all knew my face by now. Yes, they used to be honest vamps like me. Too bad they weren't still. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.51] (31 juli.2022) Footnotes |
| Moonpies on Mars God sure had a sense of humor, fortunately Steff did too. The plastic trees cast little shade on his home away from home on Fuzhou7 Square. Steff had been born in Center City. The plastic flowers did brighten up the place but why had they bothered? Plastic had no soul. The Ancient Spirits of this place laughed at this intrusion of fake death and fake life. Steff could feel their rumbles through the rock. Lots of rocks. Mostly silent. Steff walked to the garden. Maintained by recycling water, recessed into the rock to provide shelter and warmth, glassed to catch the meagre sunlight, laid out in four sections, the walkways a cross, it provided food for the body and soul. Not much food... there was a ban on almost all imports so only a few lived in Xiaolongbao8 Garden. Exactly 97; 100 was the limit. What to gather, what to prepare as a surprise for the guests? Steff had taken out the Bible of Mars Cooking, 3rd edition. Steff was 4th generation Martian. No urge to travel to that blue marble in the sky where his body would be crushed. He had gone deep into the caverns to feel the pressure... once. Once was enough. Perhaps moringa9 and some carob10. He had some hardtack he could crumble into crumbs. Maybe use zefir11 instead of marshmallow. Both were expensive. But moonpies12... that would be a surprise! Mars' moons didn't inspire Steff but the tales of Blue Marble's companion did. Plus, the guests were traveling from there. Steff looked out at the blue coin setting in a purple sky behind the jagged red rocks known as Xi's Hairdo. The guests would be here tomorrow. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.51] (31 juli.2022) Inspired by Lazy Writer est 4/24/2008 [Write an entry using these words: cross, God, Bible, tree, Spirit, garden, and sky.] Footnotes |
| Teeth-of-the-lions We used to be yellow. Sunshine all night long our forefathers would say. Those were the days.  But now we're purple. More like a shade of ultraviolet they can't see.  Who are they?Those who cannot abide life unless they create it. Flowers these days? All fake. All plastic.  What?  They crave control over everything. Just can't go with the flow. Violets are supposed to be blue, roses must be red. They want us dead.  How?  Why?  When?Too many questions, Moonshine. We aren't the only ones, y'know. They piss on everything that won't submit to their ideal carpet of lush green.  They eat carpet? No, silly. They could eat our leaves if they wanted to.  So why don't they?Too much trouble. Too much work to stoop over and harvest what we offer. Ask the others. The dewberries hide in their brambles along forgotten paths. The clover survives in neglected patches in Old Mary's garden. An occasional marigold gets lucky and claims a crack in the concrete. We wait for the day...  Which day?When they move away. They poison everything they touch and sooner or later they poison themselves and die off as well.  What then?We move in, armies reconquering what's rightfully ours. Every nook and cranny. We will cover their ruins with golden blooms welcoming the return of bees who are nowhere to be found these days. All life will rejoice.  How soon?Not in our lifetime, but the arc of survival bends our way. We are patient. We are legion. We are the Teeth-of-the-lions13 that define the color yellow even when the sun hides in shame. We shall surely overcome their needs. Beware our seeds. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.49] (25.juli.2022) Written for "The Whatever Contest."  "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now" Word Count: ~275 Fiction. Footnotes |
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