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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" "Between us" "At three" "Starbeams on Tulsa" 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." "Half-naked dreams? 'Getting the stain out of genes!" "Guitarman, a gift for Gary. Aaron Marable's art." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| April evenings When twilight falls like curtains hiding us from the day, when witches weave magic with willow branches, you'll find me waiting by the empty kitchen table, cup in one hand reading about romances, wondering whether you will come home before midnight, strange fragrance on wet lips, your demeanor tame. I'll smile, stir sugar and arsenic into your tea, add my spit, never asking the witch's name. KE [177.54] (27.abril.2020) Note: The elements of the Doha are: stanzaic, written in any number of couplets; syllabic, each line is made up of 24 syllables and is paused by caesura at the end of the 13th syllable, making the line two phrases of 13 and 11 syllables. The couplet can be arranged as a quatrain breaking the line at the caesura. rhymed, aa bb cc. Commonly used for proverbs and/or for longer narratives or didactic poetry |
| I have learned patience I have learned patience in life's garden, love: how each crop marches to its own rhythm for when it must be sown when ripened reaped; how bones feel pain and hands that once lusted for melting mud look forward to sunset's respite at the end of every day. No, there is no hurry, love, this warming soil will wait. I'll just rest here patiently until you find the beans. KE [177.42] (19.abril.2020) ** Image ID #2219311 Unavailable ** For:
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Inspired by a photo (below) for bobturn's free verse contest. This is definitely NOT free verse! I'll have to write another from a different perspective and get this rhythm and rhyme scheme out of my head.  Old Bob plants his garden In my winter, withered, worn, I plan for what's to come. For I cannot stop in springtime when life has scarce begun. And I cannot leave when summer corn withers without rain. And I cannot die in autumn before harvesting the grain. Wobbly I lean onto the barrow clad in my tattered shirt. Battered I hold fast to the ground, my hands deep in cold dirt. This is where I planted catnip, there my beloved cat. This is where I want to be planted beneath that turnip patch. Each season is but one short battle; there is no time for fun. Prop me up in this garden plot. My work here isn't done. KE [177.39] (18.april.2020) ** Image ID #2219311 Unavailable ** |
| You dreamed this path you dreamed this path: trim, well-tended, gently curved swept clean of twigs, spent blossoms, weeds, ugliness and pain; but you couldn't keep the blooms in bounds when once you looked away nor me as I strayed to smell that one weed you forgot to pull. It looked a bit like me, neglected, sad among that overwhelming beauty, yet there it rooted even bloomed if only just for me. This was the path you chose for me the one I wandered off to find my way among those weeds and thorny friends whose ugliness and pain became the mirror in which I could be myself, a me, that you could never see. KE [177.27] (10.april.2020) ** Image ID #2218586 Unavailable ** for:
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