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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: "'heart's home'" "In the midst of silence" "A radiant moon has set" "For Jeanette ... when she grows old" "Starbeams on Tulsa" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Winter: 18 Masá'il (December 29)" "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "Tupac and more poetry" "Guitarman, a gift for Gary. Aaron Marable's art." 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) KÃ¥re  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Under the Ferris wheel I see you waving down at me. You in the clouds, happy. Me happier, safe on the ground. I do not seek to soar. Far vistas are best seen across flat fields of wheat, not dangling above empty air, no one to catch me. I see you falling, falling. I'm happy that you are happy, happy to have a heart that bounds, but, I will remain rooted, happily hugging ground.  For
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| Mother and son I see it in your shuttered eyes, how you strive to stay cheerful in your jaunty cap. But yellow never suited you. You need to unlock your inner heart, leave it open to the world. Until then I stand behind you, my long nose never looking down on you, my hooded eyes watching over you, wondering whether I was good enough. And yet ... I am enough. And so are you. This too shall pass. You will know better times, for the signs are out there. Choose one that gives you hope. Make sure it isn't yellow. K.E. (20.mars.2020) [177.1]  Written for
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| Sitting in my bed, listening... ********** Chicken sizzles in the pan, herbs de Provence, sweet perfume. Lavender 'blooms' this winter, yet I eat alone. ********** Dust fills my lungs when breezes enter window gaps. Ka-choo, ka-choo, and you too! said to no one there. ********** Geraniums cry, Water! I comply. Housebound, they are my only true friends at end of winter. ********** Pound, pound, a scurry of feet. I recognize my neighbor. Even sounds have signatures that break this silence. ********** My tan suede jacket hangs limp waiting for days of no rain. I wrap myself in fake fur. I can't wait till Spring. KÃ¥re Enga (7.mars.2020) The elements of Kouta are: 1. a poem in 4 lines. (an occasional 5th line may appear) 2. a stand alone poem but often is accompanied by other Koutas with the same theme. 3. syllabic, variable odd numbered syllable lengths, the most common patterns are written in lines of alternating 7-5-7-5 syllables or 7-7-7-5 syllables. 4. secular, personal, themes of ordinary life 5. often includes onomatopoeia. A word that imitates the sound associated with its meaning such as "BooM" or "hiss" |
I commented on a post by Jeff  :"Maybe other writers don't have the same fear of failure, and sense of impostor syndrome that I often struggle with..." For most of us? Only if we are not being honest.  I love some of the contests because they prime-the-pump and get me into writing daily. I can also stretch my wings. I write flash fiction now because I wanted to try it on for size. Snug fit, but shorter is better for me because I'm more of a poet than story teller. Can you break down your writing goals into bite-size objectives? Or just say to yourself... I have X amount of time and I'm just going to write and see where the pencil, pen, keyboard, recording device takes me. I read, write, take photos, talk to people ... because I have to ...to stay alive. Whatever works best for you? Go for it." So... Am I a cheerleader  or just an observer  ? Many writers here at WDC just write for themselves  , others form a tight-knit community who love to chit, chatter and have fun.  Not me. I'm not a fun-guy. I'm far too serious. I comment because you-all inspire me. You prime-my-pump of creativity. If I can provide some support, maybe that's as-good-as-it-gets. 56.706 |
| I knew this way once In dense fog, you stand, out-of-focus, beyond a tunnel of warming green, a phantom of a former life, down a path I've not forgotten, fearful to follow again. This way to nether worlds, this border sundering life from death, mere illusions we must believe. Should I find you, will we fondle fingers. Or will you fling a spell like last time, and will I forget again. K.E 29.february.2020  Written for
Free verse brought to you by the Letter F and its cousins v, w, th, m, p and b. |
| Love me, love me not Dandelion clocks enticed the child: let go and fly to where another child smiled back. Would you love me? Could I? No answer came. We turned away. We did our chores, too shy, then slogged through years of working, forever asking, why? As thinning hair and aches and pains now beg a nap they sigh, May my parting lips praise he who'll hold me as I die. KÃ¥re Enga (26.february.2020) A qasida for: "Oriental Poetry Contest" , round 65. |
| Image at: "Growing Pains" "Offspring of Oblivion" You see crooked twigs or tangled neurons, old crones and wizened wizards, embraced in war. Do you see my cooling touch, my ermine blanket comforting all? Call me Snow, Offspring of Oblivion, Brother of Frost and Frozen Fog, cousin to Salt Spray. So... Know: I bring you surcease from your struggles, sing you winter's lullabies, encase you with my cold. KÃ¥re Enga (24.februar.2020) 16 lines for:
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| Seabird My wings of joy give flight, refuse to land, an unabating cross of albatross and attributes. K.E. 22.february.2020. Pensive with imagery? It does seem to have rhythm. A juxtaposition but not a haiku! |
| Supposedly the limits for blog entries has gone from 1,450 to 3,000. If so I can redo my blogs and figure out how to reopen this one! One can only hope! |
| Time to whine: social media is fickle. It changes in ways I never understand. When I started blogging on WDC in 2005 I wondered whether anyone would read what I wrote... and then they did. I became part of Blogville where my daily insights into homelessness became of some use if not amusement. But folks moved on by 2010. FB was the new kid in town and especially set up for those who liked short pithy bombshells or photos. But came along Twitter... and Pinterest. I still blog at WDC and occasional post poems or prose there as well. But I"ve moved on... in a way. I was bound to a small section of town in 2005. Lived one year without income. Now I travel and count every kroner here in Norway. I stay in a room with a wonderful bed and a television (10 channels). I sleep too much. I write too little. Is life better? All changes.In spite of my age and reluctance... I need to change again. What do you think, David McClain, Susan Wortham David, Anna-Lisa Gayle-Harling, Holly Jahangiri, Mavis Moog? Posted at facebook, 23.januar.2016. This blog is still full at 1450 entries. I have started to post my travel thoughts in "On The Write Path" again. I'm bored. Was hoping to be writing again. Slowly... very slowly.53,478 |
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