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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: "Sentinel" "In Lagada, la vita" "Waterlily" "La Bella Vita" "Mauve Mavis" 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." "Half-naked dreams? 'Getting the stain out of genes!" "Il pleure (poem). We R puddle-luscious, aujourd'hui." FACES     PLACES         ** Image ID #1111534 Unavailable ** Updated at the request of Thomas  : Since 2014-10-13Number of packets of poems offered: 1 Number of poems offered: 5 (unique = 5) Number rejected: 5 (unique = 5) Number accepted: 0 (unique = 0) Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Yellow Rose of Texas Mitch Miller (1955) Association: my father I was raised with this song. My father was an Okie and who knows when I first heard it. Very catchy melody. I always thought my father's favorite color was yellow and associated the yellow hypericum blooming in front of our house with him. But roses? Yellow is my favorite color of rose. In the language-of-flowers it can mean drop dead, but I told my Turkish friends that that wasn't what it meant for me. In the early 90s I had a wild yellow rose bush. My friend Esfan made rose jelly from it. The golden color fading as the pectin sets cooked petals in a jar, more precious than when fresh (24 syllable couplet: 12/12) Years later when I was living in Kansas I wrote this for Rose Lynn at the KU bookstore: "Yellow Rose of Kansas" Yellow Rose of Kansas The yellow rose of Kansas blooms a verdant velveteen. Elegant, she shimmers, through aisles of books and dreams. With eloquence she speaks of folk that dwell in other lands, where velvet was a well-known coin, and washing done by hand. (It kept them humble.) The yellow rose blooms bright this Spring, a thornless smile in velveteen. © Kåre Enga [162.32] (5.april.2005) Mith Miller's version that came out in 1955: This is a more listenable version without lyrics but using traditional instruments by Craig Duncan: Lyrics: There's a yellow rose of Texas That I am going to see No other fellow knows her No other, only me She cried so when I left her It like to broke my heart And if I ever find her We never more will part She's the greatest little rosebud This soldier ever knew Her eyes are bright as diamonds They sparkle like the dew You may talk about your Clementine And sing of Rosa Lee But the Yellow Rose of Texas Is the only girl for me Where the Rio Grande is flowing And the starry skies are bright She walks along the river In the quiet summer night She thinks if I remember When we parted long ago I promised to come back again And never leave her so Oh now I'm going to find her For my heart is full of woe And we'll sing the song together That we sang so long ago We'll play the banjo gaily And we'll sing the song of yore And the Yellow Rose of Texas Shall be mine for ever more She's the sweetest rose of color This soldier ever knew Her eyes are bright as diamonds They sparkle like the dew You may talk about your Clementine And sing of Rosa Lee But the Yellow Rose of Texas Is the only girl for me *Some versions have these 2 lines as the last lines of chorus* But the Yellow Rose of Texas Beats the girls of Tennessee In:
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| Three coins in the fountain Frank Sinatra (1954) Association: the 1950s Sappy silly love story in a romanticized Rome. Ah... but the fountain... the quest... for love, some love, perhaps even a fake love... Oh, the unrealistic 1950s. Oh, the angst! The tune is catchy and the idea of hopeless love abounds in my poetry. this loss of hair and sanity, what was never mine; three small coins, now worthless, that I toss, resigned. (24 syllable couplet: 13/11) This is a flash ficton I wrote on the recurring theme of foolish awkward love. "I will never be fooled [79z] (299 words)" It was your smile, Zmitri, that illuminated starless skies on your last day there, the lines on your face erased by the indigo glow of the pulsating sun. Did anyone know? I knew. Your exile had been necessary. Only electromagnetic clouds prevented you from returning after a hundred revolutions around that minor star in a dismal corner of a third class galaxy, your patience worn thin. You had prayed to the one thousand gods you had met, begged one to come to your aid. Not one answered and there you remained staring at nothingness. I prayed too, that you would soon heal, you, the smiling jester of a hundred disguises that befooled the galaxy's chumps, but had never duped me. Had you finally come to your senses. Had the storms inside you abated. Were you ready to leave the cocoon of denial you wrapped around yourself. Had you any remorse for that moment when you crossed the line that must keep us apart — two entities rotating around each other, never to become one yet sharing a common destiny — linked forever. Did you ever think of me? You morphed where no one could see you, there on that empty world under empty skies. You felt anger ebb and filled the gaps with longing, if only to be rid of those shackles that chafed at your existence. What seemed like an eternity passed until the inner and outer storms abated. Did you know that they were related? You lifted, free at last, as calm gave flight to translucent wings. You flew towards me propelled by photons, riding the waves of stardust, blue gossamer against an uncaring void. I embraced you with joy. Now that three millennia have passed you laugh at your former trespass. I recite this tale to remind you. © Kåre Enga [177.79z] (23.mai.2020) Lyrics: Three coins in the fountain, Each one seeking happiness. Thrown by three hopeful lovers, Which one will the fountain bless? Three hearts in the fountain, Each heart longing for its home. There they lie in the fountain Somewhere in the heart of Rome In:
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| Ballad of High Noon "Do not forsake me oh my darling" Tex Ritter 1952 Association: my father The 1950s had lots of western cowboy movies. My father loved them. This was one of the few that wasn't just about shoot'm'up. The song in various permutations ran throughout the entire 2 hours ... and you knew what time it was because a clock was in every scene keeping the time for you! I came to admire the movie later in my life, but the music goes back to my earliest childhood when good-guys/bad-guys and black/white absolutist thinking was accepted. This movie blurs the lines a bit, and honor and loyalty come to the fore. A bit subversive in many ways. Tell me: at what hour will we meet again? on which sunny day? this life time? will we ever? (22 syllable cinquain: 2/8/6/4/2) A gruesome poem  I found in an entry "Last Supper" :Last supper They feast tonight, flee before dawn's light. Those just hatched glow red. They're well fed, unaware their first is their last. They'll die after the cock crows once, before it crows twice. High Noon, their End of Time, looms lethal. But tonight they attend the family supper: mother, siblings, uncle. Spread out like a smørgåsbord, they feast on me. © Kåre Enga 2014.noviembre.8 In "One mile closer to Omaha" I wrote:I write different types of poems. Different forms and different themes. I sketched part of a Father's Day poem today, wrote one about a fasting vampire, too. Recently, about being inside or outside a group or society, notes about movies (High Noon is one), loss (a common theme), about my ephemera (my writing), pennies (as seen in the eyes of future fishermen), doubts at nighttime. I've written a couple hundred cinquains. Dabbled with tritinas and other forms. I write. What can I say. Lyrics: Do not forsake me, oh my darlin' On this, our weddin' day Do not forsake me, oh my darlin' Wait, wait along I do not know what fate awaits me I only know I must be brave And I must face a man who hates me Or lie a coward, a craven coward Or lie a coward in my grave Oh, to be torn 'twixt love and duty S'posin' I lose my fair-haired beauty Look at that big hand move along Nearin' high noon He made a vow while in state prison Vowed it would be my life or his'n I'm not afraid of death but oh What will I do if you leave me? Do not forsake me, oh my darlin' You made that promise as a bride Do not forsake me, oh my darlin' Although you're grievin', don't think of leavin' Now that I need you by my side Wait along, (wait along) wait along Wait along, wait along (Wait along, wait along, wait along, wait along) In:
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| Autumn Leaves Edith Piaf (1951) Association: grade school and relationships I grew up hearing and learning French. I sang children's songs like "Sur le pont d'Avignon" in French; we all did. I took French until I graduated from high school. And Autumn meant school days and October meant falling leaves. Even now, a certain bittersweetness pervades many of my writings. Leave-taking is oft bittersweet. I love Édith Piaf's (The Little Sparrow) version because of the way her voice quavers (just like leaves) in both English and French. red maples flutter at gold elms, then take their leave to cover lawns, parched and withered, waiting for snow (24 syllables: 8/8/8) An autumn blog entry I wrote in 2006: "Autumn Leaves. A limerick." Autumn cottonwood She hugs the tree that forever leans towards the dawn: deep ridged, lichen crusted, grey and gold. It holds fast to the ground; it's proud crown quivers. And we both know: it will still stand there when she's gone. [163.408a] And this from earlier: "A little story of Autumn. Than Bauk?" October leaves This is the time the Great Painter looks at His palette and paints the hills of Western New York. It starts in the uplands of Allegany and Cattaraugus Counties and the Northern tier of Pennsylvania. Yellows and reds creep north and south and finish along the shores of Lakes Erie and Ontario sometime in November. I've even seen a pink rose bloom on December 1st, my friend Kevin's birthday. First, the locust loses its gold raiment. The maples turn yellow, orange or scarlet. Golden brown vases of elms line the boulevards and avenues of old victorian houses. The oaks wear red-brown and hold on to their tatters, while chrysanthemums gather leaf litter and huddle. Each autumn the same dice are thrown. Which will come first: the frost or the snow. Both come by Thanksgiving, rarely October. The Snow Queen delivers a flurry that delights every child and puts fear in the hearts of car-drivers (few remember how to drive after the piña coladas of summer). The trees wear their new cloaks of white; each twig glistens with icicles. (Jack Frost takes the credit.) The old leaves glint in the gutter. This is the usual order of things. But Jack, the Queen and the Painter went on vacation. Westwind took over. And boy did he blow! Had quite a big party. I heard on the newscasts. Did you? By the time he was done, the leaves and the branches, the ice and the snow lay all mixed with down poles and dead wires. And this is no story; on Friday it really transpired! In response to Joy  I wrote: "Windmills of the mind... [136]" It's for myself I weep for Kevin When I knew that it was over was I suddenly aware that the autumn leaves were fading like the color of your hair? Did I realize that nightmares would replace my fondest dreams? Was it all just some illusion in the shadow of moonbeams? And now that I've awakened after years of restless sleep, in the quiet of the morning is it for myself I weep? And does it really matter you were once my closest friend, that once you pledged your love to me? For that shall never end! Though memories have faded and now darkness snuffs the light, in the heart of who I've since become you shine there young and bright © Kåre Enga (7.juli.2019) [176.136] Lyrics I embellished in a blog entry long ago:
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| Tennessee Waltz Patti Page (1950) Association: 5th grade In 5th grade we had to do a project on a state. I chose Tennessee. Why? Possibly because I was raised on this song. We had a 45 record of it. We had very few records; they were expensive. When I was switching colleges I told my father that I wouldn't go anywhere I hadn't visited first. As we drove past UT; my father refused to stop. I transfered to Kansas U and instead of being a volunteer I became a jayhawk. I was raised on classical music and this is a one-two-three waltz; not my favorite music nor my favorite dance music; however, this song has a bittersweetness of 'lost love' to it that has always attracted me. He walzed into my life, then waltzed right out of it His nickname was Tennessee, haven't seen him since 24 syllable couplet: 12/12 An easier on-the-eyes video with lyrics: Lyrics: I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee Waltz When an old friend I happened to see I introduced her to my loved one And while they were dancing My friend stole my sweetheart from me I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz Now I know just how much I have lost Yes, I lost my little darling the night they were playing The beautiful Tennessee Waltz In:
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| Some Enchanted Evening Perry Como (1949) Association: my mother I grew up with all the music of "South Pacific" and "Oklahoma". Musicals were big and these were two of the best known. My mother sang a cappella when she was young. She also sang harmony. She raised us on classical music and musicals. "Once you have found her, never let her go..." This may explain how I felt moving here and why my blog is named as it is: "Enga mellom fjella ..." .As I wrote then: "Why stay here? The people. Nicest folks I've ever met. I need to make up 'business cards' to hand out. I meet new people every day. All types of folks. And there are artists and writers here ... everywhere. I feel at home living downtown where deer gallop down the streets ("Northern Exposure" here I am!), where there is a small town atmosphere, where I can sit here at Butterfly Herbs and be reminded of the 70s (without my angst). I like it here." That said, it may be time after 12 years to move on. You say: it's finding that's most difficult. I say: it's harder, once found, to let go. (20 syllable couplet: 10/10) This is Sinatra's original version in 1949: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ng3XJnC8IN8 Andy William's from the 1958 movie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vs1iqeua3qI Lyrics: Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger, You may see a stranger across a crowded room, And somehow you know, you know even then, That somehow you'll see here again and again. Some enchanted evening, someone may be laughing, You may hear her laughing across a crowded room, And night after night, as strange as it seems, The sound of her laughter will sing in your dreams. Who can explain it, who can tell you why? Fools give you reasons, wise men never try. Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love, When you hear her call you across a crowded room, Then fly to her side and make her your own, Or all through your life you may dream all alone. Once you have found her, never let her go, Once you have found her, never let her go. In:
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| Green Eyes Bob Everly & Helen O'Connell (1947) Association: my father My mother had little to nothing growing up. My parents were 'old' when they married and this 78 recording must've been my dad's. It was the big-band era. Both my sisters and my parents had light blue eyes. Mine were different. More blue-grey with a yellowish tint. At times they appeared green. That was fine with me. I wanted to be different! But not too different. In college my one roommate had green eyes; so did his girlfriend. We-three were left-handed and studying biology. I'm still attracted to green eyes; although, I'm a sucker for big brown eyes as well. Tiger eyes: green, blue, brown; your slitted depths of lust, luscious as small hazelnuts, as big as chestnuts. (24 syllable couplet: 12/12) From a 2009 blog entry ""Becoming two" Ah... Penelope..." :"The rest of the story... As she left, Penelope's green eyes begged me to pet her. Her soft mew said now would be a good time. That was after I had soaked in the tub after having cooked pork short ribs and beans, blowing bubbles the fragrance of rosemary and sage, relaxing while scrubbing my pants with a bar of Fels Naphtha. She had fled from Apartment 4, snuck in my door, left her calling card on the bed. Ah... Penelope... next time I'll search before bathing." From 2007 sitting in a coffee shop came this "A tritina for Brett." [untitled tritina] for Brett Johnson of Stillwater, Oklahoma Green eyes, blond, almost a Nazi, he strums his guitar, hums his song "Shannon the sunrise was hidden", fingers gliding over hidden motes of emotion no Nazi would ever hope to express with song, his song, trilling high notes of birdsong, exposing a heart he thought was hidden like Anne Frank among the Nazis, Shannon. Those Nazis whose heartsongs died before sunrise, still hidden. © Kåre Enga 2007 [164.307] 2007-10-19 Met Brett yestereve at Aimée's. He said his eyes were blue-green, almost a Nazi. He sang his song "Shannon the sunrise was hidden" strumming his guitar. The poem flowed from that. Lyrics: (male voice) Well, Green Eyes with their soft lights, Your eyes that promise sweet nights, Bring to my soul a longing, a thirst for love divine. In dreams I seem to hold you, to find you and enfold you, Our lips meet and our hearts, too, with a thrill so sublime. Those cool and limpid Green Eyes - A pool wherein my love lies. So deep that in my searching for happiness I fear that they will ever haunt me, All through my life they'll taunt me. But will they ever want me? Green Eyes, make my dreams come true. (Female voice) Well, Green Eyes with the soft lights, And eyes that promise sweet nights, Bring to my soul a longing, a thirst for love divine. In dreams I seem to hold you, to find you and enfold you, In:
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| Let It Snow Vaughan Monroe (1946) Association: me and my sister Growing up we had to play each other. I was older but she was bigger. I remember being bundled up before being allowed to go out. Winter could start in November and last through March. I loved the first snow flakes. Loved looking forward to the first real snow ... maybe school would be cancelled? I rode my 'car' around in circles on the back porch. We made forts, learned how to skate. If it were cold enough long enough our father could flood a patch in the backyard. In our bedroom I'd watch the snow drift in along the ill-fitted casement window. I even loved the last snow when the sun turned everything to slush. I lovestorms and the passing of the seasons. I've never been a real winter person. My season was spring. It would just come so late. Who knows when the snow will blow; who can say before it goes, that there will be time enough to hold you. (24 syllables: 7/7/7/3) I wrote this in memory of a special day. "Snow thunder" Snow thunder Flakes come to us on wings of thunder, feathered drops to tickle the face, pile up like dandruff, blow about to settle over vacant lots and vacant eyes that cannot see the beauty of their wintry voice. The spark and flash, the transformer's blast turn all to darkness. And still they whiten our world with rumbles. Snow rides with feathers on wings of thunder. © Kåre Enga [162.554] (20 november 2005) Of these 12 cinquains in "Glice" 3 are published including this one:Anticipation Hey dad, how many days till we flood the yard? Are the nights cold enough now it's August? © Kåre Enga [162.25b] (2 april 2005) Lyrics: Oh the weather outside is frightful But the fire is so delightful And since we've no place to go Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! It doesn't show signs of stopping And I've bought some corn for popping The lights are turned way down low Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! When we finally kiss goodnight How I'll hate going out in the storm! But if you'll really hold me tight All the way home I'll be warm The fire is slowly dying And, my dear, we're still goodbying But as long as you love me so Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! In:
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| 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  |
| 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.  |
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The language of love apparently has 'dialects'. But if one is expecting the red-rose-of-love and is given a yellow one instead...
'She' has no qualms and makes no apologies. 
I see your lips 