Enga mellom fjella

Friday nights at the lone cafe in Plogville

Friday nights at the lone cafe in Plogville

What is this place
this cul-de-sac where silence reigns
each Saturday til Friday.
Who are these folks who stare at space
beyond the stars.
What do they see
that we cannot.
Why do they poke their noses into posies,
rub each stone
until what's rough's forgot.
How do they listen to each word unspoken,
record the melodies of angst,
the thrum of earth-light,
waves of sun-spill.
What's placed to lips to taste
will linger there to savor.
Over the lone cafe each Friday night
even the stars stand still
to hear their songs of grace,
and sorrow's flavor.

© 2009 Kåre Enga [165.446] 2009-02-16

Poetry finds its place in hidden corners, even here at WDC. In Montana, Missoula is a town of story tellers. Many write poems also, but a poet? Anyone can write a poem! I guess.

... like anyone can sing karaoke ... off key.

Plogville:



Guess I 'found' my poem for "Plogville, plogs and ploggers" 

blAh blAh blAh:

Went to "Wild Mercy" and heard Greg Peter's stories of canoeing in Montana, boating with his father in Maine, fishing out at sea in Alaska. He got to see a pod of 40 orcas in Alaska! Carrie Braman took us to Vermont and sugaring (not quite as 'idyllic' as outsiders think). Two New Englanders in one night.

I like making coffee in my coffeepot. Love the smell.

I cut up rutabaga a la julienne and boiled it with ground lamb, sprinkled with feta. Very good.

Got out and spoke to friends yesterday, but still was 'dragging'.

Montana: 29º at 10:00

12,097