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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" "A radiant moon has set" "Boise City" "Wheat penny" 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" "Czernina (Dirk's-blood-soup?) and Murv Jacob's mural" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Galaxies dazzle in a dance; strewn suns swirl with their minions, mere eddies on streams of cosmic consciousness. This rock we sleep upon provides spare repose from a never-ending enthusiasm engulfing us — rest — Zmitri, tomorrow I leave you to yourself. |
| Your cool depths betray no emotion, Zmitri; your surface, undisturbed, remains unriffled. I would toss a warm pebble onto your frozen puddle, to let you know that I've visited, a quiet reminder to let you know — you're not alone. |
| Intertwined, bold morning glory vines grow together reaching rare heights, emerald ropes thrusting spades at distant suns; purist white and Prussian blue trumpets nourishing bees. And what of these? Two lovers hugging? Zmitri — it should be you and me. |
| On the face of it, I've faded, Zmitri. The fire churning in my belly has become a dying ember. But I'm still a fiery Dragon in love with a musk Rat. I must face it... Fire in love with Water. |
| A breeze ripples the water, distorts the reflection of a lily, a wavering phantasm of another time. Your voice enters my mind — the would'ves, could'ves, should'ves echo — and your image quavers with lost rhyme. Zmitri, I miss you. |
| I beckon your lips. I caress your hips. What do moon-lit moths and flutter-by's know of love — beyond the sip — of nectar, Zmitri? Do they blow a kiss, or embrace in a hug — or like us — are they merely bugs... |
| You voted? Nah... Why? Why bother. They're coming for your brother you know. Take him. And they have eyes on your sister. So what. Do you care about anyone? Nope. So... I have a country to sell... How much? |
| Martha Root left Pennsylvania and traveled four times around the world, toting hat boxes and suitcases to meet Queen Marie of Romania in 1923. She was rootless but not ruthless, a champion of a universal cause she wholeheartedly believed in. |
| One. One. One. Zeros and ones? My number is quite common but it loses its color, its sound, its flavor when reduced to units of zeros and ones. Call me humanity's — better-half twin. Go one beyond one. Know my number. |
| Improper? That would be my middle name, or me, when I'm riled up with rage from your abuse. You chuckle as I make a spectacle of myself. Jokes on you. After I call you out, Imma callin' yo momma. |
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