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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" "In Lagada, la vita" "Between us" "Speak soft my name" "Koan on an October sky" 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?" "Tupac and more poetry" "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 |
| Beyond the forest painted white, beyond the city lights aglow, She lay in a pile of hay and compost contemplating the life within her that did not wish to wait. She wasn't quite ready to repopulate this world of wondrous cold. She'd wandered, pondered and waited centuries for this moment. The long journey to the homeland, fraught with wars among the stars, weighed heavy tonight. And now She was no longer sure it was worth it as spasms reminded Her that not everything was under Her control. At least the snow had made those visions of arrival seem real. The gathering of trees had parted as She wended her way among them, their branches singing the carols Her ancestors had taught them. Welcome home, they wept in an accent strange yet soothing. By daylight Her litter snuggled close, burrowed into layers of sagging flesh and fur, free of her womb that had kept them safe and secure. Now they would sleep but by evening they would wake hungry and begin to devour her. This had always been their way. She nuzzled each one impressing upon them their mission. They already knew their names. In a week they would leave, each a mini version of herself: the Warrior, the Fire Eater, the Water Diviner, the Mage, the Sage, the Mother-of-Thousands. Each would become a legend, summon forth a hoard of conquerors, as her bones returned to dust and birthed the myth called Mother. Yes, the city lights would beckon. A pulsating market of flesh to feast on awaited them. The trees would guide the way. The snow would hide their passage. Yes, She had chosen well. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.293c] (24.december.2021) 281 words for
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| Pratch sat where the sea spray couldn't reach him, waiting for the sun to set. I watched as a VW beach buggy picked him up. Red, just like his shorts. There was nothing to do but follow. Pattaya isn't big like Bangkok. He was headed towards Si Racha, a place I knew well. He seemed to be in a hurry as if his life depended on it. It did. Life on the beach can be a beach... if you know what I mean. Me? I was his 'guardian angel'.  That's not what I had in mind when I first met him over a plate of succulent slipper lobsters last week. I was more interested in eating him than slurping the garlic sauce. So much good food in Thailand. The buggy wasn't hard to spot. But as they got out it looked like they were more than just talking. Yeah, I caught up to him just in time to stop him from selling the only thing he had to offer, himself. I scared the eager customer off. He wasn't pleased. He needed the baht. I bugged him about that. We walked back down the ally in search of a quiet spot. I spoke softly about how salt rusts out iron wheels like on that beach buggy, how he wouldn't always be fresh-faced and 'hot', how if he didn't want me to bug him he'd have to agree to be mine on the spot. His smile was wider than the alley. I know my street food... I only buy where there's a long line of satisfied customers. And I like my meal fresh and hot. |
| Bells rang the hour. Time for supper. Glasses clinked as lamb, neeps, leeks and mint leaves steamed... as if this were the very Last Supper. For some... perhaps it was. Semple was leaving at the strike of 12. I'm free, he thought. Liberated. He went up to his room one last time. He came with nothing. He would take... nothing. "Have you checked everything?" Corinne Pudlowski had been there when he arrived, 6 years old and starving. She had tried to fatten him up on pierogi but failed. She had tried to soften his heart with hugs. And failed. He was 16 now... and free to leave. She brought out a notebook and pointed to a page. "This is what you had when you arrived." Semple laughed. "I came with nothing." She read. "Black britches, blue shirt, shoes, underwear." She picked up a box. You may take them if you wish. "Nah, don't want those nasty rags." Corinne sighed. "There's one more thing. I'll go get it." Corinne disappeared. They heard her moving a dresser and then her footsteps going up stairs. "Where's she going." "Taking the back stairway, I guess." "There's a stairway?" The painting waited in the back stairway. Its shroud of faded black was surrounded by peeling chartreuse paint. She had tears in her eyes as she placed it in front of Semple. "What's this." "We hid it so you'd stop having nightmares. But it's yours to take or leave." Everyone stared at Semple as bells rang. An hour had passed. Semple sneezed. "It's dusty." He removed the black cloth and stared at the face behind cracked glass. He shrieked. "Who is this monster?" Corrine grimaced. "She's the one who brought you here." © 2021 Kåre Enga [178.282] (7.desember.2021) |
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