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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" "Where grows the compost heap" "In search of Iris" "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)" "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "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 |
| 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 |
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