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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" "I, Katrina" "Willowsong" 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." "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "A Thanksgiving Dinner poem and the WDC Zoo" "Wheat penny. Gave in, started a forum." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
 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." |
| 4157 23 — Threading the needle Officer Kat [announcement]: I will guide this ship for the next two days. It should be a matter of simply staying on course; but, apparently, not everyone wants us to get to our destination. When Wing 90210 takes over she'll explain. Her command of this ship is critical. Wing 90210: Well said. Kat: You know how much I hate this. 90210: Why you. Why me. Kat: I dreamed this moment. When I saw the eyes in the sky, I knew I needed to take command. I have the focus, the authority and the ability to thread a needle. 90210: And me? Kat: You're like a sheep-dog herding sheep. We'll be in great danger and the crew must totally trust you. They don't trust me. 90210: Because of the last time? Kat: No. They're human ... or close enough. I'm not. I studied Humanology. In their mythology I'm either a goddess to be feared or a pet. I'm neither. 90210: You could have been Queen. Kat: I WAS Queen! And not just any queen, but it wasn't enough. I had dreams. And those dreams meant leaving for the stars. 90210: You're different from your kind. Kat: We all are. On our various planets among our own kind we bicker, divide ourselves into groups and fight. This ship has no factions. No fighting. Total allegiance to our mission is crucial in spite of our various understandings of it. We have individual jobs and positions but we act as a group. One group. Us. 90210: So ... I need to keep us unified. Kat: Yep. And there's no one more qualified to do that. 90210: Do you think I'll need to wake up others? Kat: Perhaps not. That's your decision. I intend to lock myself in chambers and go back to dreaming. I have no skills to offer for fighting the Green Star. 90210: It has a name... Kat: One that my people avoid mentioning. Our myths consider it a deadly menace. Everyone will need a clear mind, without that mythological baggage, to deal with it. In my dream we don't engage it. We just leave it behind. 4157 26 — We will NOT engage 90210: Yes, they're humanoid. No, we will not contact them. Yes, there are very good reasons to avoid them. Slavery among them. Irrationality reigns. Wing Jaafar: Said so sweetly and gently, not one note out-of-place. Not one argument to defend. No sense that you are even ruffled. 90210: I'm not. Jaafar: Impressive. 90210: You should've met my aunt. They say I take after her. As unmovable as a rock and about as much empathy. I get my empathy from my maternal grandfather. Skipped a generation. Jaafar: Empathy. 90210: Can move people to move planets. Some believe in competition that, in it's worse form, leads to warfare. I believe that peace serves the universe better. Jaafar: You're good at it. 90210: If I weren't we'd all be enslaved or sold at the meat market. Jaafar: That bad. 90210: Worse. The humans of the Green Star wracked havoc as soon as they discovered interstellar travel. It's why the humans of Sol were kept out of space for thousands of years. They did better on their third try many stardates ago. Jaafar: But before then... 90210: Interdicted. Banned. Blocked. Kept in the dark. But humans are intelligent. Those on the Green Star still want to escape. They entice unwary travelers until they can. Jaafar: We didn't fall for it. 90210: You might have. This crew is vulnerable. But Kat's dreams are true. And Kat's and Cook's people have suffered immensely. Jaafar: And you? 90210: Not as sure-of-the-future as Kat. Not as wary as Cook. Not as steadfast as my aunt. But I know this crew and I know how to read their thoughts better than the Green Star does. And Kat says we leave them behind in her dreams. And that I am the one to guide us through. And that is enough. 4157 28 — The chat Cook woke me up again. 90210 wanted to have a chat. Since she's in charge I can forgo my nap. But I needed something stronger than soup to wake me up. Cook just shrugged and said, "you'll just go back to bed again and complain about not being able to sleep". He has a point. 90210: I'm not worried, but I needed to chat. What do understand about the Green Star? Me: Kat knows better. Her people have a bitter history and Humans are her specialty. 90210: I know, but no one wakes Kat from her Kat-nap. You could die in her dreams. Me: [laughter] A fate worse than Death itself... You're human so what don't you understand? 90210: I expect them to be swayed by compassion. Me: Or logic, or rational behaviour. The humans I've known are capable of forming healthy connections and means of communication. These humans seem to have had it bred out of them. 90210: It could be that. It was hard to tune them out and so important that no one else could tune in. I can command a ship but not a planet of lunatics or a crew infected by their insanity. Me: Kat chose well. 90210: Thank-you. [sipping tea / sipping soup / lots of sipping] 90210: I needed to hear that. Not just from anyone, but from a fellow Xeno. Me: You're a hero you know. The quiet kind that no one notices because there's no need to rise to the occasion if the occasion doesn't arise. Kat will tell you that you did well. 90210. She already knew when she handed control over to me. Not one ruffle in her fur. I'm always amazed by her. She said I'd do fine because she knew I would. All I had to do was make it happen. So I did. Me: Ah, motivation. The fear of having to wake her up. [we both laugh] 90210: There was that. (991 words) |
| He fights back tears as he cuts her hair, each strand a memory of wild days and wilder nights. There was Malibu and Mallorca, Rome in Italy and Rome, New York. It was that night he remembered most. They were on their way from Albany to Rochester when roads got icy and the radio warned that it was worse ahead. They found a place in Rome. No fountains, no ancient ruins, just an old copper town in the Leatherstocking region. With plenty of snow. Winter is a great time to snuggle and the young lady he picked up hitchhiking was fair game for that and more. The Summer of Love? It was more like the Winter of Undress. So they did. They explored each other as if it were a field trip in geology. This landscape was soft and yielding, this one rock hard. His family owned a flower shop; hers grew grapes. It was a night of wine and roses. The next two days, snowed in, they drank and explored some more. It was amazing how the taste of wine mingled well with other fragrances. She smelled of lily-of-the-valley, the room redolent from sandalwood incense. They bathed in patchouli bath salts. They drank in each other inch-by-inch with their lips, traveling each road and by-way. They didn't seem to find their journey's end. They traveled for two years ... and almost married. But this last week ... Her grandson had been the only family allowed to visit. He'd brought news of her passing and here he was standing there, with a smile so much like hers. He arranges her hair; he's finished. It's time for the showing. He places a pink rose behind her ear, another in her hands, as her grandson tucks in a bottle of wine by her side. © Kåre Enga [177.139] (13.juli.2020) |
| Daylilies White haired looking out this window at past dreams gentle winds and rain wash away spent cobwebs and dust from orange petals as I sit alone behind these drapes a looking out a looking in what was and never was gathering as puddles recollect my deeds to mirror them back to me those ephemeral reflections no longer my reality wind lessens and raindrops cease and I close the drapes to the lilies that bloom each day © Kåre Enga [177.132] (12.juli.2020) (20 lines) For:
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| Ajo: I'm a journalist. I live in rural bottom-lands. Here people know each other, protect each other, make up stories because they're bored. Onions aren't very exciting. Beans are boring. But corn ... gossipy. Of course, I'm biased. But I try to get at the truth to understand the people I've chosen to live among. There's so much they choose not to share. It's not always easy. You think interviewing politicians is tough? Try vampires. There a bit techy ... but at least they rarely play games. They just flash their fangs and ... game over. I record their stories. It's hard to get any hard facts though. After a few seasons or a few centuries the layers and layers of details blend. Yes, an event may stand out but how reliable is the point-of-view of a minority witness? Very. But it won't necessarily fit the narrative of the majority historians. Ask Czeszniak. So much must be inferred from old texts. So much is lost when voices are never recorded or once recorded discarded. And lets face it, if you were a vamp do you really think you'd want to be labeled as Dracula, Chocula or Vlad. Those who were around at the time will tell you that Vlad was no vampire. Bloody? Yes. Bloodthirsty? Yes. As scary as Bawang on a bad day? Doubtful. At the core of every myth there's a truth. Same with vamps. Except that when one has lived so long as some the truth has become myth. Thoom smiles when she says the fragrance of the flower is the memory you hold long after the flower is dust. So what is truth? It's a cup of tea, a bowl of leek soup, and if you get lucky some mint-chocolate brownies. -30- Czeszniak just showed up with six dozen. Meadowlark put the kettle on. Let the party begin! ~ Ajo Is there such a thing as “unbiased reporting?” (Consider not just journalism, but storytelling - is it possible to tell a story without bias?) My succinct answer: no. Bias should be expected and accounted for. For:
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| Masked, Houston's undertaker cuts grandma's hair 6 words...
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Prompt: 8. Try not to become a man of Call of Duty prowess, but rather try to become a man of legitimate Zombie Apocalypse fighting skills. Brandiwyn🎶  I never wanted to be the man in the uniform. My father had served in the Army and never talked about it much. As a boy I didn't even want to be a cub scout. I felt uneasy around other boys. They played rough and tough and I was small, undernourished and couldn't see. Hyper-masculinity wasn't for me. Dreams scribbled out on paper, digging up and rescuing abandoned plants, riding my bike down every street in the school district, talking to strangers, silent and withdrawn around family ... there was no He-Man hiding inside of me! I didn't believe in fighting. My parents wouldn't allow us to play with toy guns. We were to behave at all times. Our friends were chosen. Home and school weren't fun. I withdrew into the pages of our encyclopedias. I didn't have comic books. And my hero was named Lassie. We all fight for our own causes in our own way. At a young age I only had one... To surround myself with beauty and become invisible. And at times I succeeded. Much to my chagrin looking back. Nope. Come another war don't come looking for me. I'll be long gone or hiding. For when one lives outside the constraints of one's designated gender ... one becomes an enigma others do not respect and cannot figure out. |
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10.You have to look through the rain to see the little green imp pulling on the threads of the rainbow. Invasion of the Insanity   To see unicorns you have to believe in them. The Little Green Imp sat with the Green Arrow. They weren't exactly friends. Other than being as green as Kermit they had little in common. A blue pixie started the trouble. Grabbing a cookie from the effervescent blue Cookie Monster was not wise, not wise at all. A tug of war over the last chocolate chip ensued and the One-eyed Purple People Eater was called in to sort out the crumbs. What a mess! Elmo showed up in flaming red and that put an end to that. The Scarlet Pimpernel hid out of sight writing it all down. He was there to investigate, not intervene. Caught between the Orange Squeezer and the Yellow Sports Bra, the Golden Rule just kept going over his litany, "Do unto others ..." The Little Green Imp started to pull on the threads of the Rainbow, but Green Arrow shook his head. The Unicorn nodded approval. |
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9. You have to look through the rain to see the oncoming bus, dump truck, and motorcycle. Solace.Bring  I was looking the other way. Smack. The slash of rain streaked the window panes west to east ... at a 45 degree angle. It hailed in the mountains. Kayakers in the river just kept riding the curl of Brennan's Wave, oblivious to anything wet. I closed my window when the cold breath tried to invade my personal space. But I wasn't prepared for the hammering in the hallway. Life in an old hotel without ghosts is normally boring ... more like a snooze. It was just my new neighbor putting up sound insulation... (ironic?) But life wasn't always so placid. Oh, it looked placid... I was blinded to reality as a child. Didn't know how fortunate I was. Didn't know how deprived I was. Never knew that I wasn't unique and that I could be me and still valued. Never had a friend I could confide in until I was 26. Was blind-sided 24 years later when my best friend severed my lifeline. Didn't see it coming. I didn't even know I was refused a college scholarship until almost 50 years later when my mother let that slip. Life could've been different? It only seems that way in the light of day. I was raised in the dark where secrets were never spoken. So I bumbled through my 20s and 30s and 40s ... and ... I didn't see my crash and burn. I just grabbed for something within my reach, forgetting I was falling through thin air. I needed support. But it probably wouldn't have mattered much. I can be fairly hard-headed and far-sighted when I should be paying attention to details in front of me. So I was looking the wrong way. Smack. Haven't been right in the head since. |
Have you ever asked someone what their favorite poem is? It's not as easy as you would think for them to name an author and a poem with the reason why. One of mine is Marge Piercy's The Moon is Always Female. I was trying to understand women in general. Please recommend a couple to us and why. 💙 Carly  made me do this!  As I told her:"Joyce Kilmer's "I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree..." From my childhood. And all the haiku of Basho, Buson and Issa I was raised on. Reading poems by Costa Rican teenagers today, Utopia. I like my "I, Katrina" poem, but Patricia Smith in "34" gives each person a voice. #18 is hard... Trees by Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/12744/trees Why this poem? It's the first I can remember! Plus, I loved my elm tree. I was awed by trees more than poetry! Children learn what they are exposed to. My favorite book was poetry and images from Japan. Silly little poems ... but ... they spoke to me. I've known haiku all my life (at least the English translation and versions). When I visited Japan in 2015 it was as if I understood. Because I did. When I saw old plum trees... I knew. In my poem "I, Katrina" I give voice to the storm. In "34" Patricia Smith gives voice to 34 residents of a nursing home that drowned. Very powerful voices. Giving voice ... that's what many of us do. |
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