Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
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: "'heart's home'" "Where grows the compost heap" "In search of Iris" "Speak soft my name" "Plain cover jacket" 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." "Tupac and more poetry" "ENFP, what are you?" FACES PLACES Kåre Enga ~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
Encourage me to sing. Applaud the roughness of my voice. Provide sweet harmonies as you sing along. Cool melodies ramble through the years of our life lived together; so, please, join this session, skipping over the depths of my depression. |
For "Blogging Circle of Friends " . Response to a post by Nikola, Nikola~It's a Girl!: "A lovely cold front is moving in and a stronger one on the way this weekend! I'm ready to party. This year's theme is "Just Desserts" Sally is carving pumpkins, watermelons and rutabagas. Betty Lou makes a lovely mousse with dead-bird's custard and Buck will be stirring in the stew. Whoever finds an eyeball wins a price! Our neighbors have already entered their dens for the winter, too bad as they are a furball of fun, so they will come for the Spring event. I did make everyone sign a form stating no bullets. Even got them notarized. Notorious Buck used to do that... but alack, he had to be replaced. At least Michelle has better hygiene. A bit mousy but, except for Betty Lou, we all adore her. They'll be 13 of us in all, including Buck, but there will only be 12 at the end! Sally may propose to you-know-who, but my lips are zipped. She's proven to be deadly when crossed. No one is as stupid as Buck was... nevermore." |
Galaxies dazzle in a dance; strewn suns swirl with their minions, mere eddies on streams of cosmic consciousness. This rock we sleep upon provides spare repose from a never-ending enthusiasm engulfing us — rest — Zmitri, tomorrow I leave you to yourself. |
Your cool depths betray no emotion, Zmitri; your surface, undisturbed, remains unriffled. I would toss a warm pebble onto your frozen puddle, to let you know that I've visited, a quiet reminder to let you know — you're not alone. |
Intertwined, bold morning glory vines grow together reaching rare heights, emerald ropes thrusting spades at distant suns; purist white and Prussian blue trumpets nourishing bees. And what of these? Two lovers hugging? Zmitri — it should be you and me. |
On the face of it, I've faded, Zmitri. The fire churning in my belly has become a dying ember. But I'm still a fiery Dragon in love with a musk Rat. I must face it... Fire in love with Water. |
A breeze ripples the water, distorts the reflection of a lily, a wavering phantasm of another time. Your voice enters my mind — the would'ves, could'ves, should'ves echo — and your image quavers with lost rhyme. Zmitri, I miss you. |
I beckon your lips. I caress your hips. What do moon-lit moths and flutter-by's know of love — beyond the sip — of nectar, Zmitri? Do they blow a kiss, or embrace in a hug — or like us — are they merely bugs... |
You voted? Nah... Why? Why bother. They're coming for your brother you know. Take him. And they have eyes on your sister. So what. Do you care about anyone? Nope. So... I have a country to sell... How much? |
Martha Root left Pennsylvania and traveled four times around the world, toting hat boxes and suitcases to meet Queen Marie of Romania in 1923. She was rootless but not ruthless, a champion of a universal cause she wholeheartedly believed in. |