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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" "Glice" "Tales told over scones and hot tea" "Speak soft my name" "Drugs sold here" 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!" "Il pleure (poem). We R puddle-luscious, aujourd'hui." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Sunday mornings, 1960 Today seemed like any other Sunday. We always looked forward to Sunday mornings. My sister loved maple syrup. I loved butter. Or so we called them! Syrup was likely Karo corn syrup and butter was soft yellow plastic known as margarine. I loved my pancakes soaked in it, oil oozing out onto melmac plates. We were into plastic. Nothing fresh ever passed our lips! Except for wild strawberries, served on home-made biscuits. But we didn't care. Dad worked overtime so Sunday was the day we saw him. Mornings began with my father sitting in the green overstuffed chair as light peeked through venetian blinds. He read the Courier-Express, a big fat morning newspaper, as he smoked his Raleigh tobacco in a corn-cob pipe. He seldom cooked. He knew how, knew how to sew and fix anything too. But he worked long hours. Sunday, if we were lucky, he made pancakes. Mom cooked too, mostly out of a can but that was how it was in a factory town where folks lived on tight budgets. Sunday morning was her 'day off'. In those days women struggled with griddles and girdles. My father only worried about the griddle, although he did help my mother if she asked. Girdles were trickier than griddles. Dad made plate size pancakes, although there were small ones once the batter ran out or if he was in the mood. Today seemed like any other Sunday. The sun came out! A rare but welcome sight streaming in. Warm inside with radiant heat. Cold outside. It always was in March. And it was quiet. Too early to mow a lawn, especially those spots where shadows protected snow. But too quiet. I look around and see rays caressing plants in the kitchen window, illuminating celery painted walls. Shouldn't they be chartreuse? And shouldn't these rays be dancing across brown asphalt tile floors in the living-room instead? I'm caught in the loss of place and time when past and present meet at the crossroads of a memory shaped into a dream. I dream today like I dreamt back then. My father's been gone 22 years, like smoke from his favorite pipe. And my mother, God willing, and the creek don't rise, will make it a century next year. 1922... so many twos in my life in the year before my little sister was born making us an uneven number. But today touches a time when pancakes were hot off the griddle and four of us sat down in our usual spots at the small kitchen table. Me in the corner leaning against grey ceramic tiles by the radio and black telephone, safe where my left-handedness wouldn't knock anything over. My mother, sister, father ... in that order. It was always that order. I should've made pancakes this morning and soaked them in butter. I can afford butter, ceramic cups and ceramic plates. But no one sits at the small green kitchen table covered with plants. Not even me. © 2021 Kåre Enga [177.360b] (7.mars.2021) 493 words For my father (March 16, 1916 - February 26, 1999) written on the 22nd anniversary of his burial: Green pancakes Dad, add mint and hope — to dispel the stench of last night's snores — that raspy voice of dreams, mix in milk to make it creamy — bananas to give some substance — baking powder to fluff it up — pour on a hot griddle, flip when done — a feast for Sunday morning's breakfast — as we lick plates clean when finished; but we beg — make extra for your monkeys. © 2021 Kåre Enga [177.360] (2.mars.2021) For
https://www.facebook.com/tuliorecomienda/videos/792800681329029 |
| edwords is a newbie old-timer. He asked about time/place for an historical story. Part of what I suggested was this [edited]: This is a fascinating clip of the first car race on the Isle of Man, 1904. It's black/white/silent of course; but, what did it smell like? sound like? taste like (dust in the mouth?) even look like (clothes, colors, landscape) what was it like to touch one of cars? Everyone always focuses on the winner but car #17 came in third as seen at the end. What is their story? All of the young children are long dead now but my grandmother was 12 that year. What would she have thought? Would a young couple have gone to gawk? I dunno... but you might. You could even visit later this year and drive/walk part of the route. Snafel (Snaefell, Manx: Sniaull) the mountain is mentioned and the electric railroad to the top there dates from 1895 and is still in operation. 1895-1905 was a time of great change. This would make an interesting backdrop and setting (and it's NOT London). In truth... any narrow focus would help with a story (whether it be romance, mystery, adventure, detective, YA). And much can be found on the internet these days. If YOU dear readers had to write a story based on this what would you focus on? The drivers? The officials? The kids? The onlookers? The bird squawking in a tree? How could you make that moment come alive (anticipation before, the event, after it's over)? Originally posted on Newsfeed. Do I dare right a story meself? |
| I commented to SusanFarmer: "TV? I watched a Thai series where one character (a ghost for 20 years) mentions "television" to a young man who laughs saying he hadn't heard that word since his father died. Folks watch on monitors and screens nowadays? The ghost apparently died holding his walkman with 1990s music. The young man had no idea what that was! I absolutely loved "He's coming to me". I'm thinking of watching Nordic Noir (2010s) now on you-tube (2005) on my chromebook (2011). All neologisms that someone from the 1990s might find amusing." I should think about this as words, expressions, symbols come in and out of use or change meanings, sometimes postive to negative or the reverse. Like the Dixie flag (actually a military flag from Northern Virginia). IMHO, it's actually a beautiful flag. But growing up in the North it just meant "Southern" or perjoritively "hick" and later "NASCAR". Of course, it had other not-so-innocent meanings ... and it's usage nowadays has taken on a sinister tone along with it's symbol of a defeated racist nation. Rationally it's quite a symbolic flag (13 stars, simple design) but its origins and misusage tarnish it. Same with the ancient swastika that the NAZIs subverted or inverted religious symbols. But neologisms are different in the sense that they describe what didn't exist or existed without a word for it. Like plate tectonics (1915) in geology. The industrial revolution and tech revolution have hundreds of words that we take for granted not realizing how recent they are. Even my grandmother (born 1892) may have known the word "automobile" growing up but no one had one. By the time she died in 1985 we had "disco" and "walkmans" (1977). I use the internet every day not pausing to think that I didn't grow up with it or that few under 30 in America have never been without it. |
| The waft of garlic and the wooden stake in the corner should have warned me. A thin cackle should have made me turn around. But I'm curious, pale and not too bright when I wake up after a century. I peaked around the half-opened door. An old hag was stirring a cauldron. “I don’t have time for this.” "You have nothing but time, my dear." The crone kept stirring. "Look it's twilight and soon the vampires will be waking up.' "Are you, a vampire slayer, afraid of that!" The cackle was full-throated now. "No. I just want to make my quota." "For the year or the decade?" The young blond woman crossed her arms and said nothing. "Been a bit of a drought, has it." "I don't have time to talk." "Do you have time to check on your boyfriend you sealed up in that coffin? It's about time for him to wake up." I looked for a place to hide. I could hear the scream. "It's empty." The crone laughed. "I need that potion now! He won't escape if I hurry." The crone smiled, said nothing and kept on stirring, sipping the ladle now and again. "It's almost ready," she finally said. "Good. Give me some now." "Oh, it's not for you my dear. It's for him." The crone's eyes beckoned. I should've known better. |
David McClain  (Tor): often times the best of us resides in our shadow selves.For "Space Blog" "Still and Snow" [E] by Solace.Bring  Not my favorite by SB. It doesn't flow smoothly in more than one place; e.g. 'with company' could be 'together'. There are extraneous words that make it read like prose instead of poetry. A couple 'and's' could be striked and both instances of 'is' can be replaced with a static or 'slow motion' verb. That said, the piece is peaceful and paints a lovely scene, especially for those of us who grew up in Snow Country or who love the snow. If I sound harsh it's because I like SB's writings and this doesn't quite measure up. As is I rate it a 3.9. Prompt: Do you like snow? Tell us about it. Yes. Grew up with it. In spite of the difficulties it can create for adult humans, my inner child always marvels at it. Snow shadows The wheels of the bus turn, churning the snow as we go over the pass from Idaho, a paved path threading through the mountains of Montana. We ascend. Lookout rises to 1,436 meters above sea level. Nothing to see. We descend. We slip and slide into the bowels of ancient Lake Missoula, now guarded by pines festooned with snow. we sit still — the moon shadowed road moves beneath us The full Moon follows us. Out here there is nothing to watch in winter. It must be bored. Nothing scurries over the surface of white. Perhaps an owl hunting by moonlight. Perhaps not. The snow has muffled the trees' deaf ears against our passing. Our headlights pick up nothing but snow. pristine crystals shimmer in the moonlight — not one hoot It's clear enough to see eternity. Few humans visit during the fleeting summer; fewer live here. The woods rejoice in our absence, stretching limbs to starlit skies, dark shadows stretching towards the North Pole in the moonlight, as if to grab us, almost touching, pulling back from our warmth and alien life forms encased in a moving tin can. Our sighting a mere moment to be forgotten by dawn. black pines — shadows alive at night die with the dawn KE [177.290] (17.desember.2020) In response to "writing is a piece of cake", my advice to wordy writers: "Frosting may make a cake look pretty but if it doesn't taste good it doesn't matter. Talking about it is nice. A picture is better. But a piece in one's mouth and another sitting on the plate eager to be eaten is best. Vomit 500 or 1000 words then rinse, wash and edit to 300. Get rid of the clutter. The right adjective is worth a hundred meaningless ones. 'Is' and 'the' tell me little and show me nothing. Evoke an emotion; any will do. If Hemingway can do it in 6 words you don't need 60 thousand." 57.262 |
| A stack of books to be read; bolded = finished (categories) {with mini-book-review}: behind the beautiful forevers Katherine Boo 2012: (3, 4, 30, 38) The Accidental Genius of Weasel High Rick Detone 2011 YA (2, 14, 23, 25, 43, 52) Bellman & Black Diane Setterfield 2013 (8, 11, 44) Frisk Dennis Cooper 1991 (22, 44, 52) Good Morning, Mr. Zip Zip Zip Richard Schickel 2003 [anti-memoir WW2] (7, 26, 34) Autumn Letters Michael Frederick 2004 (1, 25, 26) In the Beauty of the Lilies John Updike 1996 (41) The Flower Drum song C. Y. Lee 1957 (13, 18) Killing Time in Buffalo Deidre S. Laiken 1990 (home town 26) The Midwife's Tale Gretchen Moran Laskas 2003 (4?) Why the Chimes Rang Raymond MacDonald Alden 1906 Children (15, 25, 32, 52) Child of a Rainless Year Jane Lindskold 2005 (2, 4?, 21) For/from
Week 1 - 1st January - A book with the first letter of the title being "A". Week 2 - 8th January - A book written in first person POV. Week 3 - 15th January - An author's debut book. Week 4 - 22nd January - A book set in a country you'd like to visit, but never have. Week 5 - 29th January - A book published in 2020. Week 6 - 5th February - A book by your favourite author. Week 7 - 12th February - A non-fiction book. Week 8 - 19th February - A book with punctuation in the title. Week 9 - 26th February - A book with a number in the title. Week 10 - 5th March - A book from Amazon's 100 Books to Read in a Lifetime list Week 11 - 12th March - A book with a colour in the title. Week 12 - 19th March - A book with the first letter of the title being "N". Week 13 - 26th March - A book that's been made into a movie. Week 14 - 2nd April - A book you chose because you liked the cover. Week 15 - 9th April - A book written before 1950. Week 16 - 16th April - A book written by an author with the same first and last initial. Week 17 - 23rd April - Wildcard! You can choose any book you wish. Week 18 - 30th April - A book that is also a play/musical. Week 19 - 7th May - A book that has been adapted into a TV show. Week 20 - 14th May - A book with more than one author. Week 21 - 21st May - A book with a weather element in the title. Week 22 - 28th May - A book with a title that doesn't contain the letters "E" or "A". Week 23 - 4th June - A book with a long title (5+ words). Week 24 - 11th June - A book with a one word title. Week 25 - 18th June - A book set in a fictional location. Week 26 - 25th June - A book set in your home-country. Week 27 - 2nd July - Wildcard! You can choose any book you wish. Week 28 - 9th July - A book with an animal on the cover. Week 29 - 16th July - A book set in the future. Week 30 - 23rd July - A New York Times bestseller. Week 31 - 30th July - A book originally written in a different language. Week 32 - 6th August - A book with one of the five W’s, or H in the title (Who/What/Where/When/Why/How) Week 33 - 13th August - A book guaranteed to make you happy, for whatever reason. Week 34 - 20th August - A book with a name in the title (e.g. Sarah, John, Lorraine) Week 35 - 27th August - A book from your favourite genre. Week 36 - 3rd September - A book someone else has previously read for this challenge (check the forum!) Week 37 - 10th September - The first book in a series you've never heard of. Week 38 - 17th September - A book not set in the US or UK. Week 39 - 24th September - Wildcard! You can choose any book you wish. Week 40 - 1st October - A book with food or drink in the title. Week 41 - 8th October - A book you've wanted to read for a while, but haven't gotten around to it. Week 42 - 15th October - A book with a date in the title (day, month, year etc.) Week 43 - 22nd October - A book with a title that starts "The". Week 44 - 29th October - A book with horror elements. Week 45 - 5th November - A book with an element in the title (earth, air, fire, water) Week 46 - 12th November - A book with a cover that puts you off Week 47 - 19th November - A book published the year you were born Week 48 - 26th November - A book with the first letter of the title being "H" Week 49 - 3rd December - Reread one of your favourite books Week 50 - 10th December - A book published in 2021 Week 51 - 17th December - Wildcard! You can choose any book you wish. Week 52 - 24th December - A short book, less than 200 pages. |
| All the roads are closed. Snow drifts along the line of pines and fills in last week's ruts. All life rests hushed, the only muffled sound a helicopter overhead on its way to the hospital. "Another one." "Yes." The old man stirs his coffee as his son makes three bologna sandwiches. Two for his old man he seems so thin and one for himself. "I'll need to go out and shovel soon." "No, dad." "I need to do something, maybe clear the path before they come for me." Every day the same conversation over coffee, breakfast, dinner, supper. We have enough in the pantry for two months. No need to go out. "Maybe I'll do a crossword instead." After the plates are washed there isn't anything to do. It's just the two of them. It's not like they have a horse or a half a dozen pigs like years ago. Just an old house on a farm slowly returning to the sod. "Think Mabel will stop by?" "Doubt it." Mabel hadn't stopped by in a year. They'd hear about her now and again. The diner was always full of gossip on rainy summer days. They hadn't gone into town since then. Another muffled sound. "Wonder what that is." "Maybe they're plowing the road." "Better get the walk cleared then if they're coming to take me." "No dad," he said softly as he guided his father back to his chair. 57.250 |
| The phone buzzed. "I made peanut brittle." "So... Hooves... You have everyone's address, don't you? I mean to say ... it couldn't hurt making up a batch a day and sending them our way! Or better yet, cashew brittle. I love cashews." She laughed. It doesn't take much to get an Irish gal to laugh. I jotted it down, buy cashews. I 'cook' by grabbing whatever's handy. Usually two pieces of bread and whatever can't scurry away fast enough. That last piece of bologna was real s l o w last night. Maybe I should make cashew chicken, add honey and open that can of mandarin orange slices I bought last year when I could afford them. I sighed. If Hooves only delivered... I swear that the geraniums nodded in agreement in their window. Water, sunlight, dirt. They didn't demand much. Which was wise. The once full cupboards were looking a bit bare. I smiled reminding myself that I had made a goal two years ago to lose weight. How much do cashews cost? Maybe peanuts would work. I put on my coat to brave the cold and the frigid stares of my housemates as I slunk down the two flights of stairs and out the door into the night. I didn't get far. The patrol caught me at the corner and demanded to know whether I was allowed out on odd days. I had forgotten. Excuses don't matter these days. One strike and that's that. 'Thinning the herd' was their motto. Mercy doesn't visit dark cold cells where you don't eat if friends don't feed you. I dreamt of peanut brittle. I dreamt of warmth and light. I dreamt that I called Hooves at home and as her phone rang on and on, I dreamt that someone answered. |
| Canon in E♭ minor Six flats and an open G string I can't un-hear your melody, never learned to sing in harmony a one-note misfit in love from afar. And this ice storm swirls around me as this snow sifts over my thoughts drifts until I dream you awake at the dawn of aches and birdsong And your sea rolls over my angst as I walk through the burning paths of this hurting-eye green prairie aware that all ends yet this love shall last. And this ice storm swirls around me as this snow sifts over my thoughts drifts until I dream you awake at the dawn of aches and birdsong © Kåre Enga [177.278] (4.november.2020) I'd love to write my own lyrics using the structure used by Maroon 5. Lyrics to Memories (edited): R1: Here's to the ones that we got 7 Cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not 7,3 'Cause the drinks bring back all the memories 9 Of everything we've been through 7 Toast to the ones here today 7 Toast to the ones that we lost on the way 10 'Cause the drinks bring back all the memories 9 And the memories bring back, memories bring back you 6,6 R2a: There's a time that I remember, when I did not know no pain 15 When I believed in forever, and everything would stay the same 15 Now my heart feel like December when somebody say your name 15 'Cause I can't reach out to call you, but I know I will one day, yeah 15 R3: Everybody hurts sometimes 7 Everybody hurts someday, ayy ayy 7,2 But everything gon' be alright 9 Go and raise a glass and say, ayy 7,1 R1 R2b There's a time that I remember when I never felt so lost When I felt all of the hatred was too powerful to stop (ooh, yeah) Now my heart feel like an ember and it's lighting up the dark I'll carry these torches for ya that you know I'll never drop, yeah R3 R1 |
 Orange Dawn of My Deception 2 a.m. and a full moon tugging at my thoughts, caffeine not allowing me to dream, this screen winking at me as if it knows. I'll never get this story done in time. Nerves shot but heart still beating? Well, maybe. I want to move to Norway, some place snow covered, peaceful. My friend in Tromsø teases me with photos of pristine white on pine. Winter's sun is already waning there. Soon... only a false dawn, faint in the south. I want to nap but an orange glow enters my two rooms. I'm startled, check for fire. Did I leave the pot boiling on the stove? No. But the strange light still glows. Ah... the neon sign telling me gasoline is $2.29 per gallon. As if I care. I don't have a car. Snuggling under my blanket on this cold night, I struggle to sleep. I may as well get up and pee. That glow... it's brighter. I go into the hallway and look out the north facing windows, look to the east, go back in my rooms, crank my neck to look southeast. The clouds take the form of a beast. I smile. It's Halloween. Odd though. No rain was forecast. I look again. It's as if it has a grin. A jack-o'-lantern in the sky. My Muse laughs. I don't. It looks too real. And it's looking at me. Mesmerized I can't look away. White clouds become the skulls of Death Eaters, the black wisps becomes a bad hairdo, a tatter of robes. That grin — becomes wider. It looks like a nightmare. I laugh. I'm not afraid of monsters. It's humans I fear. If they ever should find me. So many years cloaked by their incuriosity. So easy to fool humans. The glow becomes brighter, oranger. What's that globe in its hand? I begin to shake. Full Moon, protect me! Full Moon banish this ungodly glow! It approaches without a sound. Now I see a halo, a globe, a string of pearls. No, a spaceship, my sun, the planets that revolve around it. NO! I am being summoned. They have come to retrieve me. My blue screen blinks. I grab a pencil, it breaks. Books burn as my thoughts go blank. The Dawn is so far away. It rises orange in the south in Tromsø in October. Too bad I will never return after today. © Kåre Enga [177.273] (30.oktober.2020) For:
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