L'aura del Campo

October 10 poems for "Knapweed" No.1

Knapweed

...because even a rusty skillet is of some use

I was alive when this coin was minted

Gone now, you forget
until you find an old worn quarter
and think of how I spoke of the unknown
past some future
when I would write those silly verses
for you sons, the ones
that grandsons snicker over.
Now, cold sun glints off snow
and your hair glints back.
And you cast
a moments thought my way
...but he was alive when this coin was minted...
skeining a past you'd most forgotten.

© Kåre Enga 2011-10-10 [168.162]

Accountant at Age 22

He lounges then lengthens
a slick form that slides through water
slices through snow
drifts here before me
transformed into a human hairball
speaking the language of numbers
(languid additions, slippery ciphers)
contained in columns,
a division into dialects
I'll never know.
I swear he's otter or bear,
belongs in the mountains,
snug in a cave,
close by a cold water dream,
a consciousness streaming,
flowing besides me.
Now he grows beyond the weak grasp
of youth with each growth of hair.
Will he become the father of otters,
or father of bears?

© Kåre Enga 2011-10-10 [168.163]

Slowpoke

She snails her way through letters
taht dance on a page,
counts ceaselessly towards ten,
stuck on seven
She twirls dandelions into her hair
and swirls through sunshiny youth
unaware she's alone.
She crawled into shadow
as others pass by her,
running to reach their goal.
She slithers past their young bloated bodies,
wends her way through old bones.
Age treats her well,
her soft worn wrinkles crinkle at dandelions
the play of shadow and sun.
She snails her way under headstones,
choses one.
With no one to remember
she's crossed the finish line
long after the crowds have gone home.

© Kåre Enga 2011-10-10 [168.164]

No easy target

They want it straight and narrow
no bumpy ride:
down a degree,
up a degree.
They wanted immunity from a system
that kept kicking them out
just as they were settling in
making a home,
getting comfortable. No.
My Kingdom wasn't for them.
This roller-coaster of temps: 97.6, a feverish 99,
changing day-to-day
seldom hovering at 98.6 for more than a week
I was an ungracious host, they said,
and took their misery elsewhere,
took the next ship I passed,
set sail with no regrets.
Nope, none from me.
I was the tempest tossed boat,
now disease free!

© Kåre Enga 2011-10-10 [168.165]

To be edited, worked on as soon as I can. Must run. This place is closing.

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