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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 the midst of silence" "In search of Iris" "La Bella Vita" "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?" "Half-naked dreams? 'Getting the stain out of genes!" "Guitarman, a gift for Gary. Aaron Marable's art." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| The lintels hugged the green turf at the back of the ruins, telling their stories to those who wandered that far. They spoke of the conquests of spirits in a tongue still spoken... elsewhere. Here only ghosts remembered the sacred spots and communal halls they once roamed. Only those who looked inside themselves could hear their laughter. They were long past suffering and anger. Neither had ever served them well. They'd let go of the baggage of living long ago. "Here we said prayers. This spot, yes, this is the spot where we fell in love, and where we died to the world. |
| He took his blinders off, amazed at what he could see. Unshackled he could move freely, without the earplugs hear birds sing. He grasped this new reality, sunrise, sunset, seeing a banjo, hearing it ping. He walked towards it as the holograph faded into a dream. This was not the reality of his upbringing, the way to Heaven, his purpose in life. He was meant to love coal, a miner, a horse carrying load after load, a black hole only lit by those in control of the switch. Light on. Light off. © Kåre Enga (17.september.2025) |
| Everyone seemed old growing up and one had to keep track of which Aunt Dot they were talking about. Big Dot, Little Dot, Dorothy. Thankfully Aunt Verna had her own name. And there were those never mentioned around children. Like Uncle Oscar who prostituted his daughter and thankfully fell off a float. Everyone knew everyone's faults but were closed mouth — unless they were drunk. I was the damaged fruit from a sober branch, not allowed to speak to family — the invisible silent one. But, even I knew who favored who and how my mother and aunt mixed like oil and water. That sad fair-haired child with a wan smile smile still plays hide-and-seek with his shadow. |
| Darkness has descended. Welcome Night! The Calvary of Crosses has gone to sleep having vanquished all those who wander by Day. n Those who reside in the liminal space of dusk and dawn — have fled. Starbearers and Cavedwellers watch the moles that moil beath our feet. Let us arise! And by the gods of Sirius... The skirmish was short and Melvin lay dead. The minions drag him into their dungeons where starfire didn't reach. The removed the medallion and choose another to carry on. It was the only force of Peace protecting against the Righteous who would destroy their home. Tomorrow they would sleep. But next dark Moon — Arise! © Kåre Enga (19.september.2025) |
| ...under napkins to collect sloshes, under a plate to keep it warm. Coffee doesn't care. It came from Ethiopia — they call it Aster — as in flowers or stars. I too came from afar. Born in a box to be labeled and sent off into space with nary a clue. I celebrate those who harvest the beans, that tell them they are worthy to be roasted and ground — then consumed. Harvesters may never see the world. But they have a home under the same stars that watch me add milk and sugar, then walk to my table with nary a spill. © Kåre Enga (28.september.2025) WC 100 |
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