Aurochs to Zorra

Dear friends,
I send you the contents of my chapbook,
"Auorochs to Zorra". It is finally done!
All 26 poems and the cento at the beginning.
The headers are printed in indigo, black, and
crimson. The footer in green. Text, black.
The cover will be yellow neon as these poems
are neither romantic nor written to anyone in
particular. I want to set up a reading and signing
at the local bookstore. And SELL copies. Price?
Who knows ... I don't care. It's done!
If anyone would like a hard copy please
write me an email so I can send you one.
Peace, Bill Sims.
PS: Definitions of the words are at the end.

INSIDE COVER MESSAGE:

Please accept these 26 poems. They were all written
in the early months of 2004 over a three week period.
Words were chosen from the dictionary. Poems were then
written in response. They are to elicit laughter,
sadness, anger, joy, peace. Each is different. The
goal was to have this little book printed by
Ayyám-i-Há of the Bahá’í year 160. That accomplished,
it is time to move on to other endeavors!
Special thanks to Jill, John, Earl, Diana, Charles,
Allen and NSU.
Peace to all in the coming year 161 B.E.,
celebrated on the first
day of Spring.
Kåre Enga
[e-mail]
Box 82, Moodys, OK 74444

"Acrostic Cento for Aurochs to Zorra"

At the end the psalms are sung
Upon this ancient dust dry shore.
Rock lined with down or spider silk,
One trips on the uneasiness and stones
Cutting squares for a quilt,
Healing the birthmark’s stain.
So go away. Or come. Stay.

The viewer for the rosebuds in the bower:
Obey your thirst for blood.

Zeta crimson soaking the cloak,
Only in the memory of those long dead
Rest those who through the centuries
Recorded never wasted,
A flame of lemon golden suns

(from: K,I,E,R,J,N,T;X,Y;Z,B,L,S,I)

Kåre Enga © 2004

Printed in Tahlequah, Oklahoma

THE POEMS:

A

"Aurochs"

No rock or creature dare exist
that does not worship Man
All must be conquered,
vanquished from the Earth.
mountains climbed
and swamps fill in
rivers tamed
and oceans dammed
mastodons mastered,
sloths slaughtered
and like the Aurochs
in its regal black coat
that would not take to yoke,
eliminated from his memories.
Than what of God?
No creature dare exist
that does not worship Man.

B

"Bubale"

In the mountains and on the plains
our forefathers grazed,
Yours went north, mine south
to where I forage.
Now those who drove you to your grave
have journeyed here to spoil this too.

Only in the memory of those long dead
do you exist,
a drawing in a dictionary,
a two-line text,
describing black hair, mighty horns,
a wild ox, they called you.

O Aurochs!
Who will write of me when I am gone?
No room for other species here!
When one exalt above the rest,
needing space
to breed the millions.
Multiplying two-legged roaches,
taking all there is
and leaving us to starve.

I write to you
to ask of you:
Who will write of me
when I am gone?
Who will draw the curves
of my great horns?
Must I be remembered
only in the books
of those who vanquished me?

O Aurochs, who remembers now?
save your ancient friend, Bubale.

C

"Chandlery"

We sit in rows:
tall and slim, fat and round,
encased in glass or gently placed.
Our desires soft
with heat of day,
rigid cold at night.

We wait until
we are of some brief use,
to sit on mantel, by the bed.
Picked from among our brethren
that await their day of sacrifice.

Our light is hidden in the wax.
The fragrance trapped
in hues of floral dye and stain,
where flame is tamed.

Release us, then,
with touch of love to wick
to see the passion flame.

We’ll weep in dribbles,
each drip a joy,
to brighten eyes to beauty.

Our sacrifice to knowledge
you must learn tonight.
We’ll dance in yellow, orange and blue,
for moments just another light at night,
guttered ere the break of dawn.

We sit in rows
behind the doors
we wait for you to open.
Sacrifice our prayer for you,
this and every night.

D

"Depurate"

Strained through lenses
demanding perfection.
Strained through prejudices
permitting only certain conduct,
punishing the rest.
We are examined, weighed and judged.
In the balance
one definition matters most,
… theirs …

If we do not meet their standards,
designated damaged or impure,
will we be discarded and denounced?

Listen to their motto:
“Purify thyself or die!”

Listen well, but,
dare not ask the question:
… why …?

E

"Eyas"

We sat in our eggs and slowly grew old,
frightened of light, alarmed by cold,
unaware of life beyond the shell.
We languished in our warmth.

Till cracks appeared, as shelter broke,
leaving us in shards, stark naked to the world. We
could not glue the pieces back,
and whimpered for the warmth.

Mothers and fathers sat on nests,
blanketing feathers, next to their breasts.
We cried for food and cooed in comfort,
we rested beneath their warmth.

Surrounded by the twigs and grass,
rock lined with down or spider silk,
we grew within our sheltered home,
contented with the warmth.

One day we gently flapped our wings,
or strengthened legs to run from home,
and sought new warmth, in other lands,
and made our own abode.

F

"Folkright"

We languish in the jails you built.
You sent us there, but never visit,
using others of our kind to bind us,
make us pay for pencil, paper.

For being poor,
our teeth will rot, our bodies follow.
Not because we do not care,
but health is rationed here.

We are your step-children
begging for the scraps.
You’ll mend our bodies, for a price.
Who’ll mend our broken spirits?

You take what ’s ours and guard what ’s yours.
Not house, nor car, nor land remains,
gone for taxes you impose
for wars against the others of our ilk.

We have nothing, if not bought and paid.
It is our right to live in pain.
It is our right to breed and gain
the price of life, sweet death.

Our multitudes, someday, will rise,
and raise the banner high
of Human Rights, what ’s left,
and take from you your privilege.

It is our birth and folkright!

G

"Gardyloo!"

Beware what flies
out yonder window
to the gutters below.
Beware it does not
shower you
with its fragrance
malodorous and rare.

Not,
the cologne of lilac, vanilla, pine
that greets you on your paths
through glen and garden!
Nor baby powder,
fresh and fine.

Don’t look up!
It stings the eye.

So beware
when next you hear the cry:

Gardyloo!

Be quick
and step aside.

H

"Hebetate"

Each day we hit our heads against the wall
in hope that they would waken up,
engage the brain and start to think.
It only gave us dented heads.

Each week we railed about the war,
the casualties, injustices,
thinking someone ’s out there taking note,
while throats got hoarse and weary.

Each month we cried into your arms
that hearts would open, thoughts would heal.
For we are those who did not yield.
It only dulled our pain.

In deepest anguish, torn by thorns,
bruised by wire tightened ’round our necks
and hammer hammered home,
we did not lose our point.

Resisting those who would make dull,
our minds, our lives, our souls,
we stayed a sharpened point until we died,
each hour, each year, each lifetime.

I

"Incienso"

A flame of lemon golden suns
rests among the argent blades,
each ray a bright medallion,
beacon of the day begun,
each minute bud
a promise of a seed.

A sterling set of leaves
clusters ’round the saffron haze
and cools by pale of moon
what day has flamed.

This compositæ of chrome ringed silver,
fragrant grows on desert floor,
where Sun and Moon have deigned to meet
upon this ancient dust dry shore.
Their incense beams and blazes.

J

"Jelly coat"

Cutting squares for a quilt,
she reached for her scissors.

“It was the jelly coat”, he exclaimed,
blaming it on his wife’s ova.
“We wouldn’t have so many brats to feed
if my swimmers wouldn’t stick.
My load ’s been slick and well delivered
since I was 15. Never had a problem, then.
No, it’s the jelly coat,” he paused,
“and not a thing I can do about it.
Come to bed ma. It’s getting late.”

She twirled the scissors in her hand
but thought better of it,

one

more

time.

K

"Ketuvim"

At the end the psalms are sung
and proverbs pondered.
At the end, long after prophets spoke,
long after beginnings were lost
in the myths of Eden.

Such is the state of Man
when in song he laments of life
before his days are ended
in forgotten epitaphs.
Such is his state of mind
when childhood recedes to myths.

At the end, one asks and learns:
neither lineage nor heritage,
nor the rant of minor prophets,

matters.

One cries out in psalms and lamentations
and sings the songs of Solomon,

and weeps.

L

"Lapidate"

On this day in June,
stones point the way to town,
a Brigadoon that once each year
celebrates its madness here.

In gladness all, both high and low,
gather ’gether to the square
to join the lottery today,
their town event that welcomes
no one but the blood
that built this town with stones,
shed for it in stones.

First, for the honor,
the family … chosen,
then the one who wins the prize.
Eyes glisten as the first stone flies
and hits the face that bleeds today.

Blood sacrifice, renewal in the stones
that point to tombs where deep in sleep
rest those who through the centuries
were blest beneath this bloodstone sun,
this solstice day in June.

M

"Mangold"

One could say they were smiling,
if cattle could smile!

Joy came from roots
the size of footballs.
Its yellow sweetness, juicy,
a welcomed change from hay and corn.

Their very meat
absorbed the sugars,
gave them fuel enough to guard
against the winter’s blast.

At last, in Spring, the farmer plants
once more the seed to sprout,
to wrest from earth in early autumn,
honeyed harvest of the mangold root.

N

"Nevus"

It stained in pink at birth.
In comments full of oohs and aahs
and pity for his parents,
the design a mark for life.

It stained a childhood
fraught with stares
and spoken unkind words
and kept the soul from singing.

It trapped and marked a youth unsure
that rights of others, were not his.
This mark, no privilege,
a cost to bear alone.

It’s faded now, the hurt, the pain
that marked his life until that day
when hugs and hope you freely gave,
healing the birthmark’s stain.

O

"Ovality"

It’s …

No mere circle
where tethered horses tread its track.
No common square
where corners hide the secrets and the dust.
No prick pointed triangle
that perfects the number 3.
No mere lines
dividing me from thee, never speaking of us.
No rhomboid, quadrilateral or trapezoid
to trap in geometric pain.
No pentagon, no hexagon, no octagon
to play the numbered game.
Within the race of life,
round and round it goes,
greeting faces new and old
that gather by its oblong dented form,
embracing all
within the length and breadth and depth

… of its ovality.

P

"Palea"

Consider the palea,
born only for the bud,
known only by the botanist.

A descriptive term: a scale, a bract.
Preserved between the pages,
pressed, and drawn in books.

Humble, in its life,
it served no purpose,
save armor for the fragile, growing bud.

It withered at the side of grass
which grew beneath its shield
towards the day and rays of Sun.

Too small, it sent
but meager sustenance from sun to root,
its death unclaimed, unnoticed.

Observe the palea now!
Preserved between the pages,
pressed, and drawn in books.

Q

"Q.D."

Every day I breathe.
Moisture rises from My earth and oceans,
gathers and blows away
or thunders in a clap
of showers, rain or snow.

Every day My heart beats.
The tremble of My fire,
the movement of My faults,
the mystery of My currents,
changing all that ever was.

Every day I receive the gift
of sun beaming on My noon,
the moon reflecting in My nights
the creatures on My surface
renewing, moving, mating, dying.
The Great Mystery of Life.

Every day beyond the calendar
and ancient rhythms of the galaxies and stars
I am aware. I never sleep.
I only ask for words of thanks,
that mortals seldom pray.

R

"Regardant"

It is hard to walk
when looking back.

One trips on the uneasiness and stones
of paths unknown. ‘Tis wise to walk onward, eyes fixed
forward. Ah, but know, alack.
The memories like dogs still follow.

At path’s end one sits with thoughts.
looks back o’er deeds undone,
regrets without the wrath
of youth to blind.

But ’tis hard to fly to stars
with burdens that one packs.
Don’t trip over life.
Don’t walk looking back!

S

"Saltimbocca"

You jump into my mouth
like veal and ham sautéed in butter.
I savor every taste of you,
the bitter,
the salty,
the sweet.

Each morsel of regret and forgiveness
remembered.
Each moment not spent with you
a moment wasted.

You embrace my thoughts
of sweet veal
and sweeter ham,
of spicy sage
and the ssslippery sssaltiness of butter.
Each lingers on the tongue.

Every word, every laugh,
recorded never wasted,
as you jump into my mouth
clasped in a sultry kiss.

T

"Tirrivee"

I’m tired of you-all
and all the bullshit.
I won’t come back
to have you crap
upon my face.
Just face this fact:
I’ll write from here
what you will tire of reading.
I can’t stand your voices in my head.
Memories that will not call,
but wish me dead.
“Come back”, they laugh.
Just more shit …
I will not face or take again.
I’ll write in my own voice instead.
So go away. Or come. Stay.
It’s all the same sweet lies.
I lie around the house and pout,
Put out by lack of understanding
from those I left behind.
I tired of the shit you see.
Shit I ate each day at work, at home, at play.
The voices in my head, in glee,
“You ran away”, they laugh.
So call! Come over. Play with me.
But leave your shit at home.

U

"Urtext"

Life was simple, blank.
The world was engaged
with eyes and ears and nose,
each day a new adventure.

The grass was green.
The sky was blue.
Earth sang to me,
the trees to you.
And Mother’s arms
were there to hold.

Crying meant pain.
A smile … happiness.
Laughter … a melody of joy.

Life was simple.
Eat and sleep and learn,
when flesh was young
and feet were fleet enough
to dance in every sunbeam.

But this is an urtext
we cannot remember.
Veiled, its simplicity eludes.
Only to its truth, can we allude.

V

"Volti!"

“Get on with life!”
You console or scream.
“It’s over, past, long gone and dead”
What once I had.
“What have you done today”, they ask.
Nothing.
“What will you do tomorrow?”
Less.
“Get a job.”
I had one once.
“Make new friends.”
So they can hurt me too?
“The glass is half full!”
Of fools like you, half empty, too.
“Get over yourself.”
Will you provide the knife?
“Get on with life.”
I thought I had.
“Forget about him.”
I never will. It was no whim!
“So stop the whining.”
Or the breathing?
“Turn the page!”
So I will die?
“No, … so the music never stops.”

W

"Wrick"

In 1992, the lobstered beaches beckoned
you to Maine and me to Spain,
to learn the language, so I told them.
I learned much more along the prado,
by the beach in Badalona,
I became a man … of sorts.
When I returned I was the ‘boy’
who knew too much and you too little.
So I taught you love of life.
But that is not how it began.
It started twenty years ago
and now you say you do not know
that day when you your ankle wricked?
But I will tell the story true.
You were 12 … and … I was, too.
You ran through woods where ground was damp and leaves
were slick. First sight of me,
you stumbled over sticks
and plopped right down upon the moss,
writhed a little, clenched your breath.
I saw your pain. Came over kissed
the sprain to make it better.
Your sobbing paused … and so did I.
We limped in silence back together
to the town to get it wrapped and fixed.
So you forgot! But I remember, 1984, November,
when first we met beneath the mist,
your ankle wricked and I heartsick.
Both healed by a kiss.

X

"Xyst"

In the days of mighty Xerxes,
Persian king of splendor,
it led past daffodils and tulips
through the boughs of sycamore.

Lined with cedar, slender, tall and green,
a promenade in painted ivory,
stark against the night unseen,
it led beneath the moon to where

in beauty, style, it once prepared
the viewer for the rosebuds in the bower,
framed the gazebo and the tower,
revealed at the end of path.

In latter days its flowers wilted,
forgotten in its innocence.
But Lo! be glad it still exists,
the graceful memory of yon xyst.

Y

"Yoicks!"

Call off the hounds
that rip and tear
the flesh and fur off coat.

Instead come hither.
Put your hands to neck
and squeeze my breath.

Call off the hounds.
They know your voice,
obey your thirst for blood.

Come drink my blood
‘Tis what you crave:
dripping, salty, red.

Still then your lust.
Don’t yell out, “Yoicks!”
Call off your hounds tonight.

Z

"Zorra"

The mal-intent behind the mask
hid where smile did not reach her eyes.
Dread female of the species
with rapier like wit
and soul-dead lips.

Bare back she rode upon her ass,
choosing one who had no back
… that brother shielded.
From her snake like tongue that hissed,
she wielded whip …
and cackled at his pain.

Searching for perfection,
she left her mark upon the heart
that bled a zeta crimson
soaking the cloak she wore.
She was Zorra, mighty Zorra
Perfect princess of the dread ice cold.

Now the ass was dead, the fable read.
But Zorra rides again.
Ancient, undead rabid fox,
that feeds upon heart’s blood.
Beware her crimson z-like hack!
Be wary of your back.

...

Definitions:
aurochs: the European bison (Bison bonasus), once
widely distributed, but now nearly extinct, except
where protected in the Lithuanian forests, and perhaps
in the Caucasus.
bubale: a large antelope (Alcelaphus bubalis) of Egypt
and the Desert of Sahara, supposed by some to be the
fallow deer of the Bible.
chandlery: a storeroom where candles are kept
depurate: to cleanse or purify or become cleansed or
purified.
eyas: a nestling
folkright: a law or right of the people as opposed to
that of the privileged classes.
gardyloo: an old cry in throwing water, slops, etc.,
from the windows in Edinburgh.
hebetate: to make obtuse or dull.
incienso: a shrubby composite desert plant of the SW
U.S. having silvery leaves and clusters of yellow
flowers.
jelly coat: an ovum-produced glycoprotein that causes
adhesion of the sperm to the ovum
Ketuvim: hagiographa; the third division of the Old
Testament
lapidate: to pelt with stones, to stone to death.
mangold: beet with a large yellowish root; grown
chiefly as cattle feed
nevus: a congenital growth or mark on the skin, such
as a mole or birthmark.
ovality: the quality or state of being oval.
palea: a small chafflike bract enclosing the flower of
a grass.
q.d.: (in prescriptions) every day.
regardant: looking backward in profile: a lion
regardant. (heraldry)
saltimbocca: (Italian: salta im bocca, jumps in your
mouth) veal and ham wrapped together and sautéed in
butter, often seasoned with sage.
tirrivee: a tantrum
urtext: the original text, as of a musical score or a
literary work
volti: imperative (Music) turn, that is, turn over the
leaf.
wrick: to wrench, strain
xyst: a covered portico, a promenade, a garden walk
planted with trees.
yoicks: used as a cry in fox hunts to encourage the
hounds
zorra: female fox (Spanish)