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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" "Tales told over scones and hot tea" "Boise City" "Willowsong" 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?" "Tupac and more poetry" "ENFP, what are you?" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Tin soldiers marched to-and-fro. Their wind-up hearts would last an hour or two. Long enough for mechanical morons to distract the Boss from what was important. Paradise Lounge would explode in 20 minutes. Even the dolls knew it was Doomsday. |
| We brave wind and waves. We must. Our families depend on us. No fish, no food. Every winter some of us don't return; but, widows in black attest we did our best and our children will remember a full belly. |
| I can show you how. The directions aren't easy to follow for a lefty. Learn by doing, my father always said. Hold it like this... see? But he was right-handed. Only a lefty can properly demonstrate anything to another lefty. |
| Klaus lost everything. What did not go up in smoke had been destroyed by earth, air and water. None-the-less, he kept breathing, eating venison, even snoozing — when exhausted. Poverty was a red-nosed light-bulb flashing "homeless", a scarlet letter on steroids. |
| A cup would do if you don't have a pint. I left my beaker in the lab. You don't... do you have a half-a-cup to spare? I'm just making pancakes. Oh, thank you! I'll bring you one when they're done. |
| She wouldn't be finished on time. At age 93, she no longer cared. They called her "Doll-Lady", still didn't know her name. Would any of them show up at her wake? This doll. This doll would be buried with her. |
| Set it down. Now. Square your shoulders and stand up straight. You've been carrying that load for fifty years. Let it go. It ain't yours to carry. Truth is... it never was. So stand up straight. Let's go. Now. |
| "TM stands for Truth Matters." Maybelle was convinced of that. The classmates shook their heads. "Trademark" someone shouted. Maybelle scowled. "And what good is a trademark if you're selling lies? What you sell must be true — or it doesn't matter." |
| Liam wrote on the board for the young'ns. Call me Mister Liam or just Auld Liam. One boy laughed. "Why?" "Because I'm auld." One girl snickered. "You're old not auld." "Aye, 'tis true... y'r not from these parts, are ye?" |
| He stood out. A broad rugby player in a glittering gown usually does. Brad didn't care. He'd live. His sister had terminal cancer and he wore this for her. Pink ribbons, mustache and bows had earned him the acclaim, "outstanding". |
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