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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" "A radiant moon has set" "La Bella Vita" "Koan on an October sky" 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." "In a garden of roses, baby" "A Thanksgiving Dinner poem and the WDC Zoo" "Poems inspired by maps. Remember 1963?" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Supernatural is a genre related to Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction. ... The term is used in many fandoms to indicate whether a fanwork's genre has supernatural elements, such as ghosts, witches, werewolves, other wereanimals, etc, without the fear that the genre horror uses. Supernatual: magic miracles precognition demonic possession souls, spirits or ghosts monsters yōkai 8 Types of Yokai Obake. Obake is a general term for any creature that can shapeshift into human form. Japanese mythology typically shows much respect for the intelligence of animals and they are often portrayed as having supernatural powers including the ability to shapeshift. ... Tengu. ... Kappa. ... Tsukumogami. ... Yamauba. ... Kintaro. ... Rokurokubi. ... Yurei. Noppera-bō (のっぺらぼう), or faceless ghost, is a Japanese yōkai Yōkai usually have a spiritual supernatural power, with shapeshifting being one of the most common. Yōkai that have the ability to shape shift are called obake. Oni (demons) and yurei (ghosts) have played a role in Japanese culture for thousands of years, and stories of new spirits continue to be told today. grim reaper angels devils, asuras or demon kami UFOs legendary creatures God or gods parapsychology ** Image ID #2227859 Unavailable ** |
| He loved the radish patch. Fat and white, red and round, multi-colored like Easter eggs. He didn't eat them. Just grew them to give away. He placed bowls by the roadside, delivered them in boxes complete with a color-matched bow. The radishes loved him too. He planted as early as he could. Even grew a few in a window box in winter. The Spanish Blacks were his favorite winter radish. He grew them for an herbalist who used them to detox the liver and gall-bladder. That's how he first met her. Slim and shaped like a Spaniard, strong flavored and long lasting. She felt the attraction too: how he crawled between the rows, caressing every leaf, how he checked for bugs and gently pulled those ready to be harvested. She saw how he made love to the daikons, figured she could do better. She learned how to make creamy radish soup, rubbing the excess olive oil into the valley between her breasts. She roasted them with garlic, added the greens to her salad, shredded them with celeriac and pomegranate, fried them up to make crisps. She practiced on her mother, her neighbor, even her dog. It was time. She made a pot of Earl Grey tea and sipped until her Radish Man arrived. She fed him. Encouraged him to add a touch of salt. She hid her bottle of arsenic at the back of the shelf. No need to alarm him. She inveigled her way into his life, offering to help weed the spinach, carrots and cabbage so he could concentrate on his radish beds. She became his delivery 'boy' making sure to include her special jars of pickled radishes. People began to pay! She became his 'gal' Friday, cooking the books along with dinner. Come winter she snuggled up in his bed. Cherry Belle and White Beauty just mewed in despair. Daikon the schnauzer kept watch. By Spring, the fields had been well plowed and she felt sufficed, radiant as a radish in fact. There was a glow... she hadn't told him yet. Early Summer found her weeding and picking and cooking. She wanted a scarecrow so she placed her former boyfriend's head on a stick to ward off the crows and nosy neighbors. He thought she'd found the ghastly horror in a Halloween store. She didn't bother to correct him. She wanted her Radish Man to herself. Each day she sprinkled their food with spices and what looked like salt. By June she had to tell him the truth. He'd planted more than radish seeds. By July Radish Man wasn't feeling so good. She promised him she'd tend to the radish bed and she did. He watched from the window as she caressed her stomach and gathered the last of the globes. What shall we call him, she murmured one day before she made her rounds. Zlata was to hard to pronounce. French Breakfast was asking for the kid to be beat up. Helios sounded like a Greek god. White Icicle got them both laughing. Daikon was already taken. On his death bed she told him she had chosen Fred. Radish Man looked puzzled. So she explained. Fred's swimmers wouldn't swim. His did. But Fred? Oh, not to worry, she assured him. She explained how she had fed Fred arsenic just like she had fed him. Then she had pickled him. The shock on Radish Man's face was perfect so she continued that it was his head out there in the garden looking a bit ragged these days. She helped him sip some tea. Once he was pickled he'd look as radiant as a radish guarding his beloved patch. © Kåre Enga [177.178] (8.avgust.2020) About 615 words. ** Image ID #2227849 Unavailable ** |
 Letter to María Celeste Santa María de Dota, 2 de agosto 2024 Querida María Celeste, You are named after this ghost-town. What was. What may be again. You're our hope. My daughter, your great-grandmother has gone to CATIE in Turrialba where they study coffee to find a cure. The stars say you'll be the one to find it. I have no idea when that will be. No idea where to send this letter. Your mother isn't born yet. I must tell you how it once was. Our family has lived among these verdant slopes for generations. We planted and picked our own. Then families gathered to form a co-op. We grew only the highest quality varieties, knew when beans would be ripe. We took care of our bushes planting new ones every 30 years, harvesting the wood to keep us warm and roast the beans. Every May the fragrance of coffee in bloom would gladden out hearts. We even carefully gathered a few flowers for tea. Now sitting with a friend over a cup and inhaling that fragrance must remain a cherished memory. Every year there would be a competition in Costa Rica. Coopedota always did well competing against our rival Tarrazú. We were the best. Coffee. We were encouraged to drink a cup every morning for the energy it gave, savored by those of us who knew how to pour boiling water over properly roasted fresh ground beans. Cafe chorreado they called it. When roya hit we struggled but when a human disease spread among our people, the borders closed and there was no one to pick the coffee. Except us. We picked our coffee like our forefathers did before us. But we couldn't control the warming climate nor the diseases that attacked our coffee, each time worse than the last, finally killing it all off. Once it was obvious that there would be no new crop, city people hoarded it until they realized they couldn't keep it on a shelf. There would be no more coffee the headlines blared. They drank it all to the last drop. No one thought much about us. Coffee made us; coffee destroyed us. Plant other crops they said; tobacco, avocados, papaya, whatever. We did the best we could to survive and not lose our fertile land to the foreigners who lusted after it. On this commemoration of Our Lady of the Angels, I pray that when you find the cure these hills will welcome you back and once more the coffee culture will thrive among these greener than emerald green hills. Until then, doña María del Rocio.  © Kåre Enga [177.176] (15.agosto.2020) (431 words) Photo 1 at top: Gaby Ureña explaining coffee beans to four Swedes from Göteborg. Coopedota, Santa María de Dota. 8 enero 2013. Photo 2 at bottom: Granos de oro. Café secando por el puro sol. 8 enero 2013. Coopedota, Santa María de Dota. Both photos taken by me. For:
"The highly aggressive form of the blight that wiped out countless crops in Ireland centuries ago, has mutated and come back. Almost overnight, worldwide coffee plantations have been wiped out. What makes this blight so horrible is not only does it target coffee crops, but it also targets coffee that is stocked up in warehouses and on people's shelves. Authorities estimate the entire world's supply of coffee will be gone within the week. This will impact businesses and people worldwide and have devastating toll on the world's economy." |
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