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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" "A radiant moon has set" "La Bella Vita" "Starbeams on Tulsa" 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)" "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "Holy day. Autumn in November. A mole." "Poems inspired by maps. Remember 1963?" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| I have felt like a stranger in a strange land. Kindergarten was brutal. It barely got better. I didn't connect with the other kids and never did learn how to make new friends. High school was a landmine of hormones and misplaced emotion. I withdrew until my senior year. And even then, keeping book for the basketball and baseball teams, I felt more like a mascot than a part of anything. I did join chorale in junior high, but was too shy to sing in fron of others and cringed at the thought of spending my summer with them or going on overnight trips. I preferred my own bed, snug in the safe-from-tornadoes south-west corner. When I went to university I had to adapt to a different landscape. I flourished... until I didn't. Roommates make a huge difference. And I didn't get that memo. I transfered to a university out-of-state and once again started to bloom like a sunflower (a bit cliche since I was in Kansas). But I was still a stranger in a strange land. A year abroad in Costa Rica made me aware of how unprepared I was for the world. By the time I'd lost my passport and plane tickets in Peru... I no longer cared. Once back I decided to stay in Kansas, moving to a small farming town and then to a larger town in the Czech-lands of Nebraska. All of this mattered when I moved to two inner city neighborhoods with people I had never interacted with. Finally, another small city was my un-doing. I escaped to Oklahoma to heal; but, scars were torn off when I became homeless in Kansas (third time was not a charm). Finally Montana, another surprise, at least to me. In all my global travels since, the words to this song speak to me. Stranger In a stranger’s land New chance to know who I am If I have the strength To begin again Note: Dimash has a range of C2 to D8. He plays multiple instruments and sings in multiple languages. He is one of the greatest singers of all time. He's from Kazakhstan. New ground Far as I can see New ground Underneath my feet Stranger In a stranger’s land New chance to know who I am If I have the strength To begin again Somewhere in my heart in ancient times I wandered Through these valleys I have climbed among these hills Faces from a past I’m haunted by their mem’ries Lives and loves I’ve lost I feel them in me still New ground Far as I can see New ground Underneath my feet Stranger In a stranger’s land New chance to know who I am If I have the strength To begin again 3× For:
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| Dancing in the earthlight I don't care — anywhere The sky river floats above us, goes places we've never been. Can you meet me tonight? Look up at the Moon, whisper a prayer, soft, so the neighbors don't hear. Can you meet me on the far side? More private there. Not like the last time. You picked me up. We went to the airport to see a friend off. I had told you to bring a passport to get through security. You laughed and asked which one? Waiting, you wanted lunch. So we saw our friend off and then I suggested breakfast in Lisbon, waving the tickets I had bought that morning. It was fun. Off on the wings of a jet, going somewhere we'd never been. Who cares if the seats were thin and our legs were cramped and you found the food to be so-so. I thought it was lousy. At least they didn't lose our luggage, you quipped. What luggage? We went on a shopping trip in the Baixa, O Chiado, Bairro Alto. You wondered where we were staying. I don't care — anywhere I sang it, as you roared in delight. Luckily The Independente had a vacant suite. And dinner at The Decadente was superb. That night we sat in the rain at the overlook looking over Lisbon at the lit castle and Alfama. We didn't care... until lightning warned us to go back in. It was a delightful night, a delightful week. Breakfast every morning listening to Lourdes sing as she dispensed orange juice and coffee with warm milk, croissants and pears, ham and cheese. One can get use to a cheerful Brazilian face entertaining us with "La Vie en Rose", especially when sung in French, and on-key. Oh, to visit Brazil some day! We met guests from here and there. You spoke. I listened. Mostly, I was just enamored by your voice fluttering under that mop of red hair. But, Portugal wasn't private. I thought it was. Sorry about that. Great time pounding the pavement in Lisbon; until, it pounded back. My legs were so sore! It's what you wore that caught their attention. Flaming red hair the color of carnations on the 25th of April. A dress festooned with carnations. Did you know it was the commemoration of the Carnation Revolution1. You seemed so joyful as you joined the parade and dance to the video-cameras. Did you know that Leftists are considered Commies back home? Did you care? I didn't, but your colleagues did. Word had gotten out. They were in an uproar as they watched you prancing about. They melted like snowflakes on the plains of Spain... in July. Nothing you said mattered. At least they only fired you, only denied you any compensation, they didn't complain to the President or the Pope... yet. And they saved the rope for me. Thank you for the warning. I don't care — anywhere So, let's meet on the Moon this time. Fly to China, see if they have room on the next flight of the Stellar Delight. I can afford it. Freeing the bank of its capitalist burden the day before they came after me paid off. It helped to be a trusted employee with proper connections, and keys to the vault. It's all been properly laundered. No worries. And no hurry. I'd just like to see you, red hair aflame, dancing in the earthlight. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.51] (31 juli.2022) Word count: ~580 Prompt: "La Vie En Rose": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NK9zdPj-os Footnotes |
| Along the Po I "No vamps ... really? We used to be vamps but now that we're reformed we're politicians." "No politicians either." "Gangsters?" "Yeah, yeah, but they're a dime a dozen." "You remember dimes?" "Can you count to a dozen? Now, get outta here!" II The store was on the main drag, Prada on one side, Kors on the other. Just a PAM2 snuggled in where it didn't belong. The Shop was on the second floor. Looked like any pawn shop with the usual guitars, computers and a motorbike (the lift was in back). There wasn't much dust, except on the display of vintage dolls. Not one Chucky. I made sure. It's not that I have an unreasonable fear of dolls; but, I've met Chucky. "I need some cash." "I need some collateral." We all have needs. III Torino3 is known for it's palace, Museo Egizio, it's arcaded walkways. Advice? Best not to wander along the Po4 alone. I was looking for mommies-to-be or mummies-to-be. Didn't care which. They were both equally useless and mysterious to me. I didn't kill the unborn, no matter how tasty, and mummies were tasteless once the blood was drained. I wanted a Bloody Mary! After that six-pack, I sure didn't need one. I was dressed up like Dracula. Since there was a festival in town, no one lounging under the old trees in Giardino Sambuy5 blinked an eye. I had always wanted to be Dracula; but I feinted at the sight of blood. I drank it from a bottle in a brown paper bag instead. I was a blood-junky. Vickie was my dealer. I never asked for its provenance. Any year, any type, was good enough. I never had enough cash for the fresh stuff. IV "You're bill comes to $500." The shock on my face made Vickie flash her Colgate-white6 teeth. "...or your youngest child." "I... I ... I don't have any children." "What type are you?" "Type? ... Single? Average?" "I meant A, B, AB, O. Positive or negative? "B positive." "Oh, I am." Vickie flashed those teeth again. "Too bad you aren't O negative. There's a premium for that." V The blood bank didn't pay much; but, nether did working at PAM. A side hustle of servicing the lonely and needy didn't bring in much. At least I didn't starve. PAM was cheap and I got a discount. Sleeping in the back of the pawnshop was rough though. I kept it free of vermin and 'discouraged' anyone trying to sneak in. About the Po... it was running low; but, that didn't keep folks away. There were places to hide or at least be unobserved. Should someone fall into the river unnoticed... did they make a sound? Not if their throats were slit. Not that I would know... So. I kept mental notes of everyone's needs. Blackmailing the local priests and politicians was lucrative; but, they all knew my face by now. Yes, they used to be honest vamps like me. Too bad they weren't still. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.51] (31 juli.2022) Footnotes |
| Moonpies on Mars God sure had a sense of humor, fortunately Steff did too. The plastic trees cast little shade on his home away from home on Fuzhou7 Square. Steff had been born in Center City. The plastic flowers did brighten up the place but why had they bothered? Plastic had no soul. The Ancient Spirits of this place laughed at this intrusion of fake death and fake life. Steff could feel their rumbles through the rock. Lots of rocks. Mostly silent. Steff walked to the garden. Maintained by recycling water, recessed into the rock to provide shelter and warmth, glassed to catch the meagre sunlight, laid out in four sections, the walkways a cross, it provided food for the body and soul. Not much food... there was a ban on almost all imports so only a few lived in Xiaolongbao8 Garden. Exactly 97; 100 was the limit. What to gather, what to prepare as a surprise for the guests? Steff had taken out the Bible of Mars Cooking, 3rd edition. Steff was 4th generation Martian. No urge to travel to that blue marble in the sky where his body would be crushed. He had gone deep into the caverns to feel the pressure... once. Once was enough. Perhaps moringa9 and some carob10. He had some hardtack he could crumble into crumbs. Maybe use zefir11 instead of marshmallow. Both were expensive. But moonpies12... that would be a surprise! Mars' moons didn't inspire Steff but the tales of Blue Marble's companion did. Plus, the guests were traveling from there. Steff looked out at the blue coin setting in a purple sky behind the jagged red rocks known as Xi's Hairdo. The guests would be here tomorrow. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.51] (31 juli.2022) Inspired by Lazy Writer est 4/24/2008 [Write an entry using these words: cross, God, Bible, tree, Spirit, garden, and sky.] Footnotes |
| Teeth-of-the-lions We used to be yellow. Sunshine all night long our forefathers would say. Those were the days.  But now we're purple. More like a shade of ultraviolet they can't see.  Who are they?Those who cannot abide life unless they create it. Flowers these days? All fake. All plastic.  What?  They crave control over everything. Just can't go with the flow. Violets are supposed to be blue, roses must be red. They want us dead.  How?  Why?  When?Too many questions, Moonshine. We aren't the only ones, y'know. They piss on everything that won't submit to their ideal carpet of lush green.  They eat carpet? No, silly. They could eat our leaves if they wanted to.  So why don't they?Too much trouble. Too much work to stoop over and harvest what we offer. Ask the others. The dewberries hide in their brambles along forgotten paths. The clover survives in neglected patches in Old Mary's garden. An occasional marigold gets lucky and claims a crack in the concrete. We wait for the day...  Which day?When they move away. They poison everything they touch and sooner or later they poison themselves and die off as well.  What then?We move in, armies reconquering what's rightfully ours. Every nook and cranny. We will cover their ruins with golden blooms welcoming the return of bees who are nowhere to be found these days. All life will rejoice.  How soon?Not in our lifetime, but the arc of survival bends our way. We are patient. We are legion. We are the Teeth-of-the-lions13 that define the color yellow even when the sun hides in shame. We shall surely overcome their needs. Beware our seeds. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.49] (25.juli.2022) Written for "The Whatever Contest."  "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now" Word Count: ~275 Fiction. Footnotes |
| —I'm here to return a heart. —We don't... —It's slightly worn and very tired, but it still beats. —We... —don't accept hearts. I know. This place operates without one. — ... —Don't look so shocked. I used to live here. I had to leave just to find a heart. None for sale or rent within 100 miles. —We... —like it that way. I understand. But this heart is special. —How is that? It looks just like any other heart. —Oh... are you sure? Look closer. — ... —Don't act so afraid. — ... —I traced it back to its owner. —And? —It once belonged to you. |
8th and final entry for June '22 edition of
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheEndingChangesEverything Let's begin with the trope this time. Can I write and then provide an ending that changes how the story is perceived? 65 degrees at noon. There will be some cloud-shedding drops later. There's a breeze blowing through the building; coffee clearing out my mind. Time to write "Coffee Melody". Coffee Melody Sweet caffeine, oh sweet dark brew. Add some cream, your lips will do. It was a troubled time in Torino. The Po was drying up. The Alps were crying, a landslide will bring me down. The Egyptians wanted their mummies back and I was out of coffee. Sure, Più A Meno would have some but they would also have food and my fat ass didn't need any more and, frankly, I didn't want to move. I just wanted coffee. Delivery? ... The young man stood there — stark naked. "You ordered coffee? It's hot and black but I can jerk off in it if you want some cream." The doorbell brought me to my senses. A young black-and-beautiful man stood there. "Você tem açúcar?" "Sim. Você tem café?" His smile warmed my morning, as did the coffee, while we sat on the hotel's terrace in Lisbon sipping and chatting. Brazilian? Angolan? Não. Alfonso was from Cabo Verde, as was the coffee. I wanted to taste those lips. ... But I wake up instead. It's a cool day, 65 degrees at noon in Montana, perhaps some cloud-shedding drops later. There's a breeze blowing through the old building; coffee clearing out my mind. Time to write "Coffee Melody". It was a troubled time in Torino. The Po was drying up. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.42] (3.juli.2022) ANALYSIS So I threw in some news. The drought in the Po Valley is serious. A glacier broke off and killed 6. Today's headline: Ice landslide on Mount Marmolada, Italy. Glacier Shard Avalanche. And I did drink my coffee. And it was breezy. And... I've been to Torino, visited the Egyptian Museum and shopped at the local PAM... cheap food. And I was desperate to write something so I could finish the challenge so I stole the title of a Thai BL series... A dream within a dream, a shell within a shell, much like Russian dolls... allows me to startle the reader more than once. And may reveal too much about my dreams! But then again... the reader will never know how much or how little is based on the truth.  ~400 words |
7th entry for June '22 edition of
A dog with violet eyes Shrek smiled at his good fortune and tossed a stone, tossed a branch. A dog with light violet eyes caught the branch and brought it back to the boy named Shrek, five-foot-two, eyes-of-coal and weighing all of 7 stone. The young man saw his reflection in its pupils, the wag of tail, the whine as he laid it at Shrek's feet. He picked it up and tossed the branch as far as he could. It soared over a bush, over a ditch, landed fifteen feet away. The dog came back, again and again until cloud-shadows dimmed the light. Shrek petted him gently and slowly walked down the path to the road, never looking around until he got to the lean-to he had called home since yesterday. It began to sprinkle. At least the cardboard roof didn't leak... much. He knew where to huddle to stay dry. A wet nose nudged him out of his reverie. Violet eyes bored through him until he nodded, then the dog curled up and went to sleep. Shrek listened to the patter of rain, the distant drumming off the tin roof of a shed, the gurgle in the gutter. He got up to piddle in a puddle. The dog never moved. He had a dog, it seemed. He'd search for some food in the morning. Shrek loved blueberries. Dogs ate? Maybe the old lady who had let him stay here could help. She had smiled back at him when he had asked if he could rest here. Shrek considered his good fortune. He'd been kicked out of home four days ago. Now he had a roof, a dry spot, berries to pick and... a dog. A dog with violet eyes. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.41] (2.juli.2022) ANALYSIS Life is going to be good. Shrek is sure of that. The old lady is kind. The dog followed him home. And the blueberries are ripe! He may be totally dissociating but... it's all good. A bit like Pollyanna. Not to say that wild blackberries guarding the path to the blueberries don't have thorns but a scratch or two is a small price to pay for Paradise. And the dog may have a flea or two and the old lady seemed to be frail and missing a couple teeth; but, Shrek knew kindness. He had felt it once in third grade. Everything was going to turn out all right. So... https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/QuirkyTown ...maybe this is a quirky spot along a country road, a nowhere like Brigadoon... beware of tornadoes? Nah... this is more like Tahlequah and "Where the Red Fern Grows". When I ran away moved to Oklahoma I ended up in a small town, was taken in by a woman with three kids, lived north of Moodys, down Long John Hill and across the flint-rock creek in a crossroads called Teresita. It was a year of healing. More than one local mentioned that Tahlequah was a place of healing. So I've lived among quirky people (the homeless community was quirkiest) and seem to fit in with misfits. I survived. Shrek will too. And the old lady and the dog with violet eyes are a part of that. ~525 words |
| Shrek smiled at his good fortune and tossed a stone, tossed a branch. A dog with light violet eyes caught the branch and brought it back to the boy named Shrek, five-foot-two, eyes-of-coal and weighing all of 7 stone. The young man saw his reflection in its pupils, the wag of tail, the whine as he laid it at Shrek's feet. He picked it up and tossed the branch as far as he could. It soared over a bush, over a ditch, landed fifteen feet away. The dog came back, again and again until cloud-shadows dimmed the light. Shrek petted him gently and slowly walked down the path to the road, never looking around until he got to the lean-to he had called home since yesterday. It began to sprinkle. At least the cardboard roof didn't leak... much. He knew where to huddle to stay dry. A wet nose nudged him out of his reverie. Violet eyes bored through him until he nodded, then the dog curled up and went to sleep. Shrek listened to the patter of rain, the distant drumming off the tin roof of a shed, the gurgle in the gutter. He got up to piddle in a puddle. The dog never moved. He had a dog, it seemed. He'd search for some food in the morning. Shrek loved blueberries. Dogs ate? Maybe the old lady who had let him stay here could help. She had smiled back at him when he had asked if he could rest here. Shrek considered his good fortune. He'd been kicked out of home four days ago. Now he had a roof, a dry spot, berries to pick and... a dog. A dog with violet eyes. |
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