L'aura del Campo

A bunch of writings... all on one page!

Spent

Days slip away.
Once I had many.
Now they’d fill one holey basket
and that one small.
Every morning I walk down the path to tomorrow
I lose one more.
So small
and insignificant
when they gathered in multitudes.
So precious now.
I’d follow them back
but that way ’s been erased.
I marvel
at how they scurry
into recesses of rock, tree and grass,
like dropped coins
along this ever-shortening path.

© Kåre Enga 15.march.2014.

In your oceanic nightmare

         for Clovia

Ripples cross these sunset waters. Reach your blood-shot shores. You haven’t slept for centuries. Tiny sticks prick your eyelids, pin them open. Your iris blooms in scarlet, turns to black. He’s back and tossing, turning, won’t release his grip. He clings like nits in matted hair. You swear you’ll wake and quick forget him. The moment shifts and now hot clouds blush pink, you’re Rose-of-the-Universe, your orbs twin suns, your thoughts actions swirling through the nothingness. You speak and grass appears. You take a nap. Your eyes have burned through blackness revealing red lines streaked on white. They twirl in a dance before you. You feel a wetness on your cheek. Rain! You exclaim and it does. Waters cleanse; waters gather; puddles join and soon the sound of waterfalls fills your silence. Stop! And all turns rainbow. You’re tired but the grass lies fathoms below the water. You float and cannot sleep. He comes to you in daydreams, ever closer. Your tear-ducts leak and all turns pink. His ripples reach out across sunset waters to burn your cheek.

© Kåre Enga 14.march.2014 RedBook #104

Once upon a nightmare … only once

         for Thoom

Mouth gagged, eyes covered, you struggle to hear where you are. Hard rock answers in a soft tender voice, “You are here”. A stone rolls away. Warmth touches your brow. You want to cry out as tears turn to acid, deepen into runnels. A mist washes the salt away. You awake to crows and a cock calling thrice. Your eyes feed the caws your ears can’t ignore; your taught skin touches ice. The night’s adventure continues. You soar, arms flung out as wide as the sea. Only those who have gone blind the forest can see you are nailed to a tree. You float down to a meadow. Grass sprouts from your wounds, tickles your ears. You hear crows from afar. They cackle that your cock has been strangled, boiled in wine turned into water. You wake once more. Where is the door to this coffin? “What is a door?” the rock whispers. Black wings lift your bones one-by-one through a hole filled with night. You lie in a pile. Light caresses what’s left. And this time you wake for real … to never dream again.

© Kåre Enga 8.march.2014 RedBook#99

In your family nightmare

         for Ajo

You are his father’s son. His laughter, his joy. A ripple crosses an Oklahoma lake. You’re both young and have a full head of hair. Sun bakes his summer; his fishing hole shimmers. Your winter winds freeze it. He skates. You skate. The pond dissolves into dust. Wind howls. Sands blast. He’s in Africa, strung up on wires. You try to reach him. You can’t. “You’re not born yet” sings a young skinny woman with thick black hair. She has bad teeth. She’s you mother. You see through her, a boy being born, a tow headed runner. You can run faster than your father’s laughter. You hide while a girl-child is born. She’s bigger than you. You wish to be her brother. She smiles and nods then dresses you up like a doll. You learn to bowl and play baseball. No sweat. Your laughter echoes the old man’s laughter. You make him feel young. You’re a chip-off-his-block. He teaches you things about life. You understand. You’re wild; you are free. You know he loves you. You roar like an Tulsa tornado. You yawn and tell the boy to wake up, that it’s only a dream. His father is dead and it’s time he grew up. You look in the mirror and see his father’s son.

© Kåre Enga 1.December.2009 [166.328] RedBook #96

Faggot!

Child eater!
They’ll say this and worse.
What you are won’t matter much.
I will hold you tight to me, savor
every bite.

© Kåre Enga 16.march.2014

Trolls

We work in winter under the snow,
bask in caves where you never go.
Out-of-sight; out-of-mind;
not quite humankind.

© Kåre Enga March.2014

Quetzal

Green, light as feathers,
a dream leaning back off a twig,
careful not to ruffle twin tail feathers,
a flight of emerald through emerald,
jewels you try to capture in your mind.

© Kåre Enga 2.march.2014

Ready or not

—When the owl calls my name I’ll be ready, she said.

He inhaled her perfume, worried.

—Oh, not with an insurance policy, my last wishes locked up in a will. I’ll be ready. I’m ready now.

He lay there open eyed while she slept. Soft moonlight caressed her form. She was too young, he thought.

At two she woke up and an owl passed before the moon with one hoot.

—No, the owl didn’t whisper my name, she said reading his thoughts. He snuggled closer.

—He whispered yours, and she sank into his trembling hug.

© Kåre Enga 28.February.2014

Free advice

He sat on the bench, a small sign scrawled: free advice. I’ll even pay them he muttered. It had been a long winter in a town where he knew no one, where no one cared to know him.

No one stopped.

He went to the corner, ordered a coffee and a hazelnut roll. 40 kroner. He sat there in silence. Others came in and went out or sat down with friends. No one spoke to him.

He went back to the bench and put up a new sign. “I’ll give you 5 kroner to listen to my advice”. He sat there for hours alone with the sparrows pecking for crumbs. They are lucky he thought.

At sunset when chill filled the Spring air, he got up, put his hand in his pocket, jiggled his money and went down the cobblestone street towards the room he called home. And muttered to a passing bird:

When will I learn.

© Kåre Enga 28.februar.2014

To those who dare ignore my magnificence:

I am the rock and the scree!
Glaciers. My snow-white blanket.
Waterfalls. The Giants’ tresses.
Tind. I poke my fingers to the sky.

© Kåre Enga March.2014.

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