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 |  Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here. |
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NURTURE your NATURE  Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it? We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.   |
| Sunday, the 18th of July: 76 degrees at 11:30 racing towards 100. AQI of 135 = staying in. I did sleep okay. The window fan blowing out has really cooled down the room. Now to clean the mess I made when I moved all the plants around! Without the fan, my room never got comfortable, never cooled down. Over 90 sounds miserable to folks who live in a humid place. It's particularly bad in parts of Appalachia that have barely a breeze. But here? It's dry and the land cracks and the skin cracks and... cracks. Living in a proper house at street level with a shady yard (we have enough rain for trees like ash, elm and locust) it's actually not too bad. Warm by noon. Hot in the late afternoon. Chilly in the morning. The temperatures can vary by as much as 40 degrees, almost like 3 seasons... daily. But the smoke. It's hazardous. About 4 years ago there was ash in the air and I went out without a mask... silly me... I'm sure I damaged my lungs. I escaped to Tromsø in the north of Norway. Pure air. Incredible. My lungs rejoiced. It took two weeks for them to clear out. This is the Land of Smoke. Every year. Some worse than others. When Nature doesn't start a fire, idiots do. And the biggest idiots are the controlled burns in Idaho. My answer is goats for underbrush. Others have suggested chipping, mulching and clearing of dead wood. But it's easier to burn... like in Brasil, except most Americans don't see it that way. When we don't have smoke we have dust. It covers all surfaces. I'm not a duster. The Plains are dusty. Should I move back (and yes, I want to move back) I'd have to deal with that, and torrential rains and flooding, tornadic winds and 'weather'. One never takes eyes off the sky. But I wouldn't want to live in most American cities. They are built for those who have a car attached to their butts. Traffic? Welcome to Kansas City... or any city. I'm better off in a real city like Torino, Italy (medium), Taipei, Taiwan (huge) or Lillihammer, Norway (small) where one can walk, take buses, use the Metro or train. Real cities. Livable cities. Even small villages in Taiwan have a train stop and in Norway it's easy to flag down the bus. It's possible to live in quite rural areas, visiting the nearby town or big city only when needed. In Holland one just takes a bicycle, walks to the train or peers out the window watching the neighbors or being amused by the panorama of humanity passing by. Billie Jo and I do that here. Almost every day sitting in front of the 3rd floor window gazing at downtown, the depot, the river, the bridge and the people crossing the bridge or kayaking, surfing, tubing down the river, cycling down the paths. Writing this it sounds idyllic! But I'm stuck inside with mute plants looking out at a white sky. ~510 words Posted in "Blogville "  1095 |
| Fueled by Angst or Anger I need to vent, to rant, to rage... but when it's over? I feel empty and weak like I do after vomiting or diarrhea. Not a pretty image, but getting the poison out is important. How to do that without making a mess that others have to clean up is the key. Most people don't like it if you spit all over them. But one can learn from expressing oneself. And others can learn as well. Today I'm feeling a bit empty. Got one thing... just one thing... accomplished, but it was blocking me. Next! And my anxiety isn't just generalized. I get that too. But this was more focused... and still is. Anger? Constant bombardment eroding my human rights in America and around the world unnerves me. Most folks seem to be oblivious unless it affects them. But so much affects me as a marginalized person... and many of my friends are maginalized as well. A double whammy. ... calmed by lavender. I stick my nose into flowers. Today it was daylilies and lavender. Soon it will be time for me to glean some as I walk. I only take a bit... leaving plenty for others (until the first frost looms, then it's all mine). I also treated myself to a french-vanilla-lavender milkshake. It cost $4.50. My bank balance screams that I can afford this. Will it calm me enough to buy a new computer? A new phone? Two trips abroad? 5 years ago I figured out how much I needed in case of emergency. I have many times that now to fall back on. I need to spend money. Not to make money... but to live instead of merely surviving. As I listen to operatic music on Radio Bari (Italia) I should be thankful for the calming Rage. |
Sunshine He tried to enter the window, tried to get past the drapes, tried to wake me up. He failed. He decided to follow me around, shadowed my every step, waited when I went inside. He quailed. What can I do to make you notice? What can I do to warm your heart? What can I do? He — paused, exhaled. So I greeted him at dawn, met him in the yard high noon, watched him yawn in the west; I wailed, sunburnt. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga, [178.160] (23.juni.2021) 17 lines. Circa 85 words. Prompt: sunshine For
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| Heat Haze Sweat bees, and flies pouncing on our poulet, gath'ring tantes et oncles, a picnic curse in French. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.91] (22.juni.2021) poulet = chicken tantes = aunts (ants?) et = and oncles = uncles French = literal but also an allusion to "pardon my french" A bit of a jest for those who know both languages or took it in grade school, comme moi. Cinquino 2-8-6-4-2 PROMPT DESCRIPTION (You don't have to use all the words or include them in the poem): BEACH FUN, BUTTERFLIES, HEAT HAZE, SUNBATHE, BEES, PICNICS for
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| Serenade It's still not sunset. An hour after vesper bells ring, the quiet of heat and a limp flag define this end of day and the approach of summer. Under the light-blue bowl a few leaves flutter. It's late spring in Montana as green shifts its hue away from yellow. Below, the river roars from last week's deluge and surfers ride the curl of rapids. Few swallows dart and dive above them. Their life beneath the bridge has been disrupted, their homes for decades destroyed by new construction. They have moved elsewhere to dab their nests of mud and wattle. Next year they'll return to start anew. And come next June the flag will surely wave and green leaves flutter. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.112] (1.juni.2021) For
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| Before Fed-Ex Delivery Do not close you eyes, not even for a second. You have packages to deliver, a load of turnips and beets for the local market, a chicken to be roasted for tomorrow's dinner. The wind freshens. It carries the fragrance of linden in bloom. You must maintain the balance, hold on to the pole, allow the ripples to part before you, watch the waves as others pass, tranquility interrupted by their wake. You should never fall asleep whilst standing upright, as you slowly push forward. Your cargo, be it dead or alive, is precious. You must deliver it to the other side, wherever you wend. Some rivers bend and eddy; some lakes have potholes and rocks. There are always logs and snags that may block the way. Be wary of the willows, with their siren call and fingers that grab; ignore the beaver about its business, the trout that teases you, knowing you dare not pester it, lest you lose your balance as you pose like a balerino on demi-pointe. You've seen it all by now, smelled it all as fish guts and rotting algae swirl around you. The gentle motion rocks you as if to upend your plans like the time you hurried to make it home on time and didn't, soaked, your packages wet and almost ruined. You swore as the ducks laughed. You learned. You had to. Now older and — maybe — wiser, you take your time. 40 years of crossing here to there, there to here, one crossing at a time your father warned you. Geese honk above you on their way home, The fed-ex truck honks, stuck in traffic. You dare not turn your head, but cannot hide a smile. You will get home before they do. You must maintain the balance, allow the evening to part before you, the sunset mirrored in your memories of another time. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga, [178.101] (28.juni.2021) ~300 words Prompt: PUNTING ON THE RIVER taboo words: boat, water, punt, float, splash or any derivatives of these words. For:
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| Be happy with what you have! And who you are. Change, they say, as if I have a magic wand. I have a wooden spoon, a chopstick. Does that count? Today the sun broke the record. A bit toasty for the tulips but the rain will come with cooler weather. I see clouds in their future. Clouds obscure my past. Change, they said. And I did. I threw my old life away, but I still keep everything that's useful. I'd rather see things passed on. Like the red shorts I wear. Like my green shirt. They belonged to someone else before they found me. Like the stray cat, the stray refugee, the stray plant sitting next to the dumpster slowly freezing. Now, it's off-springs in my window bloom orange for months at a time. Very little that clutters my room is new. So much needs a new home. But others don't see the value in something worn. I'm worn. They don't see value in me either. Time for new friends or a new body? A new bright and shiny attitude would help! The traumas of a life barely lived have tarnished mine. I must be grateful, happy with what I have. Would that suffice? Mother Nature provides for all her short-lived creatures. Me among them. I must be happy for this life. Would She be happy too if we all stopped abusing Her? Nothing lives forever, but memories remain etched upon the atoms of the Universe. Gone, yes, but never quite forgotten. Let my goodness be commended, my trespasses forgiven. Long before I'm forgotten let me be remembered. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.84] (Mai.2021) Won 2nd place in the
About 270 words. Autobiographical. Prompt: What would you change to help Mother Earth be a happier place in which to live?. |
| Science and religion 7.februar.2021 In response to the WDC newsfeed of the newsletter Spiritual: February 03, 2021 Issue [#10591] regarding "The Coexistence of Faith and Science" As a Baha'i I am quite comfortable with seeing humanity take flight on the wings of spirituality and reason. "If religion were contrary to logical reason then it would cease to be a religion and be merely a tradition. Religion and science are the two wings upon which man's intelligence can soar into the heights, with which the human soul can progress. It is not possible to fly with one wing alone! Should a man try to fly with the wing of religion alone he would quickly fall into the quagmire of superstition, whilst on the other hand, with the wing of science alone he would also make no progress, but fall into the despairing slough of materialism. All religions of the present day have fallen into superstitious practices, out of harmony alike with the true principles of the teaching they represent and with the scientific discoveries of the time." — 'Abdu'l-Bahá 1912 I did not elaborate on my personal opinion on the public feed as some traditional Christians here have made it very clear that they, and only they, have all the answers. This is an issue for many people, especially Christians who think that science is an attack on their faith, and more so for those who use the Bible as the ultimate cookbook with all the recipes and answers. For those with an apocalyptic view dealing with present day issues may be considered a waste of time. But not all religious people view science and religion as a black/white war game of winners and losers, a grandiose game of chess. God is One ... but there are many paths to that understanding. |
| I remember making a clay dinosaur in 4th grade sitting at a trapezoid shaped table with Jerome. I chose the plain protoceratops. They didn't seem to be fancy, flashy or attention seeking. Everyone seems to love the triceratops. But then again... new research indicates that maybe they were: https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/technology/these-dinosaurs-may-have-used-their-fr... I didn't see any walking around today. They tend to herd in the fossil fields of Mongolia. And they tend to be very quiet. |
| Red, gold and green Green arbors of August sag under a film of dust (the dry-leaf rustle and dry-throat rattle) until change in the air lightens their despair as sunlight softens and nights lengthen while green yellows and elks bellow in the midst of the rut — how gold turns to rust and those reds we behold, once bold, that adorn the forest's crown soon fade to brown as all life bleeds to prepare itself, a need to cast off color for deep sleep's pallor perhaps to wake to light after cold white nights under a banquet of snow — for inner embers glow to hearten the hope that sings of verdant spring and renewal — after the breath of autumn's death and winter's hibernation — that cessation of what was once pursued, now resting, waiting to be renewed. © Kåre Enga [177.233] (25.september.2020) 32 irregular lines with an aabb rhyme. For September 2020:
 prompts:HIBERNATION, CHANGING, COLOURFUL, DARK NIGHTS, WOODLAND WALKS. |
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