Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

The Racing Clouds of Winter

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

5 Comments

Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis

Heart of the Evening

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

1 Comment

Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis

All of Us

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

we cannot go
to another planet,
to another earth
in another solar system.
 
We are too late for that,
too far away.
 
Instead, we must
sit down, you and I,
and look into each other’s eyes,
our arms embracing,
before we can save
any of us.
Window

			

2 Comments

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, poems, Poetry

In the Time of Covid

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The old men
 are dreaming bad dreams.
 The rain will not fall
 on our land.
 Even the deep water
 stays away.
  
 I yearn for the earth
 to give us her blessing,
 her sanction,
 so we can harvest
 the oats and rye again,
  
 so I can run
 to the far field
 to wrap my arms around
 the face of my horse
 and dream good dreams. 

5 Comments

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

The Telling Dream

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

In my dream
it was nighttime.
I was in a muddy field
overlooking a large city
with bright lights.
The field was enclosed
with barbed wire,
and there was a herd of cattle
within the enclosure.
  
The cattle were not really cattle,
but were members of my family.
They were up  
to their bellies in mud,
unable to move.
Hundreds of poisonous frogs
were climbing onto the cattle,
killing them with their bites.
  
This was a foretelling,
a story of betrayal
and pain,
a story of survival 
and transcendence,
an ancient story.
  
Come over here
and sit down by this tree,
and I will tell you this story.
It is a story of my life 
and yours.

Leave a comment

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

Separation

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

At birth,
the farmer separated
the calf from its mother.
He wiped away
the amniotic fluid
with a gunny sack
before putting him
in a separate pen.
 
Black children born
to enslaved parents were
taken from their weeping mothers
and moved hundreds of miles away.
 
Native children
were snatched from anxious parents
and moved to some miserable life.
 
A Central American baby
Is ripped from its mother’s arms.
Both baby and mother’s spirits
are broken.
 
The farmer’s wife protested,
“keep the calf with its mother.
Do you need every ounce of milk?”
 
“This is the way we do things,”
replied the farmer.

2 Comments

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

The New Calves

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The new calves
are growing stiff
from the wetness of birth,
 
and old men
come running across the fields
asking,
who killed our
apple-blossom time?
 
I say to them,
surely dead leaves
can’t grow in your pockets now.

Leave a comment

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

Enough

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

This last,
fading light
is enough
to carry us
across the field,
across the world,
 
enough
to lift us
from ourselves,
our mitered lives
in this small changeling
of a disappearing evening.

2 Comments

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

Places We Recognize

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

When we are
desperate
and can’t recognize
the world,
we climb
into words,
grasp letters,
covet paragraphs
to find
smallness.
 
When we are
desperate
we go to this
small garden
to gather ourselves
in the act of
cleaning away dying plants —
to repeat our worth —
in places we recognize,
like the wounded fox
that crawls 
into the small culvert.

2 Comments

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

The Reaching

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

3 Comments

Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis