Enga mellom fjella

White dog

White dog

By the front door a white dog waits patient
head rising up with each ghost of a smell,
tail wagging slowly each time that it opens.
Where is his master to take him away?

Where are the ghosts to show us the way?
Take us through shadows, past sorrows, past mourning
promising us that this pain too shall pass,
as our cries and our life seep sadly unnoticed.

Where do ghosts hide and when do they visit
revision our memories, restore visions of futures?
Can they suture these wounds, that gush and then fester,
clean them, remove the ghosts of these scars?

Have hosts of our forefathers guided thus far?
Do they speak in the gaze of a loyal white dog
patiently waiting in front of some door,
patiently waiting for someone to join him?

© 2008 Kåre Enga [165.331] 2008-11-08

I thought of the line "where are the ghosts" and went from there. I had noticed a friendly white dog sitting in front of The Break looking in. His master was inside with coffee, I assumed. So, he got woven in at the end and then while I was editing, I put him at the beginning as well.

ME:

Got to Spanish circle where I met Erika Schumann from Chile. We will gather again on Monday for photos of Peru. They are a very nice and eclectic group.

At Men's group we spoke about California's Prop 8 and the reaction to it. Peter, who did his two year LDS mission in England, shared how (in his opinion) a group that 'has all the answers', that expects compliance and no questioning has no room for gay men.

I've been writing bad limericks, so ... just need to put them somewhere (not here) where anyone interested can read them.

... a short note: gasoline is $1.99!

Blogville

I made a goal to read everyone this week, so hopefully I can catch up. I'm sending e-mails to m.i.a.s with hope they'll respond ... and possibly blog as well.

Montana: 36º at 22:00. Moonlight and frosting grace old hills.

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