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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 Lagada, la vita" "Waterlily" "Speak soft my name" "Drugs sold here" 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." "Even in chaos ... More hockey poems." "A Thanksgiving Dinner poem and the WDC Zoo" "Wheat penny. Gave in, started a forum." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| 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-lions1 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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