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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" "At three" "Koan on an October sky" 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." "Holy day. Autumn in November. A mole." "Czernina (Dirk's-blood-soup?) and Murv Jacob's mural" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| I have learned patience I have learned patience in life's garden, love: how each crop marches to its own rhythm for when it must be sown when ripened reaped; how bones feel pain and hands that once lusted for melting mud look forward to sunset's respite at the end of every day. No, there is no hurry, love, this warming soil will wait. I'll just rest here patiently until you find the beans. KE [177.42] (19.abril.2020) ** Image ID #2219311 Unavailable ** For:
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Inspired by a photo (below) for bobturn's free verse contest. This is definitely NOT free verse! I'll have to write another from a different perspective and get this rhythm and rhyme scheme out of my head.  Old Bob plants his garden In my winter, withered, worn, I plan for what's to come. For I cannot stop in springtime when life has scarce begun. And I cannot leave when summer corn withers without rain. And I cannot die in autumn before harvesting the grain. Wobbly I lean onto the barrow clad in my tattered shirt. Battered I hold fast to the ground, my hands deep in cold dirt. This is where I planted catnip, there my beloved cat. This is where I want to be planted beneath that turnip patch. Each season is but one short battle; there is no time for fun. Prop me up in this garden plot. My work here isn't done. KE [177.39] (18.april.2020) ** Image ID #2219311 Unavailable ** |
| You dreamed this path you dreamed this path: trim, well-tended, gently curved swept clean of twigs, spent blossoms, weeds, ugliness and pain; but you couldn't keep the blooms in bounds when once you looked away nor me as I strayed to smell that one weed you forgot to pull. It looked a bit like me, neglected, sad among that overwhelming beauty, yet there it rooted even bloomed if only just for me. This was the path you chose for me the one I wandered off to find my way among those weeds and thorny friends whose ugliness and pain became the mirror in which I could be myself, a me, that you could never see. KE [177.27] (10.april.2020) ** Image ID #2218586 Unavailable ** for:
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| 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. ** Image ID #2216333 Unavailable ** 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] ** Image ID #2215682 Unavailable ** 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. Kåre 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 ** Image ID #2214112 Unavailable ** 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. Kåre Enga (26.february.2020) A qasida for: "Invalid Item" , round 65. |
| Image at: "Invalid Item" "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. Kåre Enga (24.februar.2020) 16 lines for:
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