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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 Lagada, la vita" "Waterlily" "For Jeanette ... when she grows old" "Koan on an October sky" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Doing and don'ting. A scene in 2nd person." "Even in chaos ... More hockey poems." "A Thanksgiving Dinner poem and the WDC Zoo" "Il pleure (poem). We R puddle-luscious, aujourd'hui." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| 1. Because we choose to live alone, surrounded by walls topped with barbed wire, with AI security that only allows entry to those who know the magic password... we will die alone. We're already on life-support. Yes, there are those who cherish family and friends; but, for many, estrangement deepens as they choose to build higher and thicker walls to bandage self-inflicted bruises. There's no hope of healing for those who prefer to die. 2. If I had a balloon, dear Tina Shadow Prowler-Spreading Love I would see nothing but orange haze at the horizon and dusty city streets below. If I were to rise higher even that would be shrouded by haze and smoke that chokes. The air kills the lungs and the will to live. There is no breeze to clear it out, no rain to scrub it. Birds sing at their own peril and folks behind masks slow down and speak in a hush. There's no rush to die as Death walks the alley ways of the poor and aged; weary, yet aware of the waste, sends minions to the hospitals for the bountiful harvest. Higher up there's nothing to see. All directions cringe a sickly orange-tinted grey. Even my shadow lay muted and no breeze freshens to send us on our way. I hang there, suspended, listless, too depressed to summon Death or beg to die. 3. Dear s, At least you can respond with a sentence! Most folks seem to grunt (two word max). And you've been very open about your precarious situation as well. I used to get 10-15 comments/day in my blog when I was homeless and destitute. Howaboutthat! I got 4 views/day in my blog over the last year. Twitter and Tik-tok videos get thousands of views in one hour (and numerous comments, many of them incoherent, ignorant or hateful). Nowadays no one seems interested in interactions unless it's flinging horse manure. Not only is discourse not civil, it's non-existent. One would think that writers might be different, but they aren't. The isolation of covid and the ability to cut oneself off from the real world (physically, mentally and emotionally) seems to delight many who 20 years ago would have been sitting in cafes and diners chatting with friends, who 15 years ago were chatting on facebook, who 10 years ago dropped social media (like WdC) or became addicted to sound bites. The 2016 USA election (7 years ago) was an example of how processing truths, lies and hatred had shifted. Now we have AI. I predict that within the next year I can program messages to be sent daily, monthly, or yearly to friends without any further input from me. At some point they will be Postcards from the Dead. 4. We will die alone, because we choose to. 58.373 |
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