Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

Woman of the Night

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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John Looker Reviews Meditation on Ceremonies of Beginnings

The High Window is an important poetry review site dedicated to covering international poetry in Great Britain. The High Window just published a major review by the British poet John Looker, artwork by Ethel Mortenson Davis, and poems from Meditation on Ceremonies of Beginnings published by Tribal College Press, written by Thomas Davis. This is just a stunning issue of the website, at least from where I sit in the universe.

The link to the website is: https://thehighwindowpress.com/2021/04/27/thomas-davis-river-of-people/?fbclid=IwAR3F5LB_pDFwhf2t7x5ei8JLBpriz1MdfJEdWA3MdsB3zVRN4gKGdx3CirQ

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Mirror

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Because we walked
to the edge of the water,
a loon surprised us
with two young
clinging on her back—
geometric black and white spots
on top of a still,
early morning mirror.

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Night of the Swan

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Bullet Train

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

There is a bullet train
speeding through our town,
our country,
with the letters CRISIS
written on it.

We cannot put
our arm out
to catch it,
or wrap our legs around it
to hold on to it.

With lightning fastness,
it is melting the ice
at the poles,
changing the seas forever.

It is ripping apart
the land around it
with drought, flood and wildfire,
diminishing wildlife and songbirds.

Like a giant spring,
loaded and set
to snap at our face,
it will take out
the whole eye of the world.

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Slipping Away

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Heaven

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Wolf moon
 with yellow-green eyes,
 slipping between trees,
 slipping from heaven.
  
 Timber wolf
 with yellow-green eyes,
 slipping between trees,
 slipping between exploding bullets-
  
 heaven slipping between
 our fingers. 

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In Memory of Juno

Poem and pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 Dog
 The way you buried
 your nose in my hand
 made me unable to forget you
 that cold morning
 at daybreak.
  
 Skin and bones you were.
 Perhaps a boot to your neck,
 or starvation
 sent you fleeing to my gate,
 asking for help.
  
 So I let you in.
   

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Our Winter

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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About Being Lost

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 As a different species,
 you were there
 in the beginning,
 leading the toddler
 clinging to the long hairs
 on the ruff of your neck
 out of the vast corn field 
 and into the arms of frantic parents.
  
 Then, in midlife,
 you led us
 out of the western wilderness
 back to the road—
 how glad we were
 to find a way out.
  
 Now, in old age,
 you are disappearing
 from our lives—
 a little each day,
 as a new wilderness
 looms on our horizon.
  
 Who will lead us back 
 to the road now? 

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