Ethel’s poem, “Cold”, has been published by Poetry Breakfast this morning. Poetry Breakfast emails one poem a day to subscribers. It publishes some of the finest and most accomplished poets being published today. You can see Ethel’s poem at: https://poetrybreakfast.com/category/all-poems, the site’s web page. I hope you’ll find time to go to Poetry Breakfast this morning.
Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
Ethel’s Poem on Poetry Breakfast This Morning
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
Respite
poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We walked Michigan’s shore
against gale winds,
blue-green water
churning up white foam
and throwing large rocks
at our feet
until a stand of cedars
offered warmth and stillness
from the wind.
Leaf-litter
lined the forest floor, softness,
respite from our difficult world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Power
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The sailor
understands
the power of the wind,
adjusts his sails
to capture it.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Blue Above Us, Blue Below Us
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We stepped off
the edge of the world today,
blue above us,
blue below us,
nothing but sky and water
around us
until
death’s door
surprised us.
Not yet.
Not yet.
This is still not
yet our time.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Wooly Bear Caterpillar
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ve come to lie
my head again in your lap
this Wooly Bear morning:
Frost in the air,
the sky unbelievably blue,
the leaves red-orange.
I reach down and touch
The softness of the caterpillar’s
black and brown bands.
She quickly springs into a ball—
so strong, so resilient:
Strong enough to survive
90 below zero in arctic winters,
spinning a cocoon
and then in spring
turning into a Golden Isabella moth.
This strength is something
to take home with us
and rid our toxic relationships,
disregarding them like clothing
we let drop around our ankles
and step away from
with a new nakedness,
frankness,
ready to start building
new cocoons that turn us
into golden moths.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
An Angel of Sorts
To Ed DiMaio
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I must tell you
that sometime
when all is lost,
when there is
no more hope in the world,
the great cosmos,
the lovely universe,
puts on our path
a free spirit,
an angel of sorts,
or a person of faith —
and says,
“Here is your protector,
the one who will lift your soul up,
the one who has come
this evening to be your guide
to position yourself again
in the universe.”
And now he says,
“How comely you are,
how lovely your skin,
how grand your soul.”
Now you have your answer,
the answer to Hopelessness:
Unexpected grace.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Goddess
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The hem of her dress
brushes against the trees
and the open meadows,
open spaces that bank
against the forest,
appearing familiar,
as if they were
from some other lifetime:
Brushing that brings
into focus
the sharpness
of the fox’s eyes
and the grass snake
that climbed
up into the cedar tree
to escape the flooded ground.
She is eye-level to us,
holding her head high,
looking into us
and we into her.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
People
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There have been
periods of time
in history
where the people
have had power,
periods of peace
where rulers
have been peaceful,
and people have had
their say.
But now,
we, as people,
have lost our power.
We are living
in a period
of war and injustice:
Like the ancient civilizations
where despots ruled
with reigns of terror
for millennium.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Spirit
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
End
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
His breathing
became ragged.
It was a rainy day.
At 6:00 p.m.
he passed away.
I was with him,
finally alone,
all afternoon.
I told him I was sorry
he had to endure
this ending.
A woman doctor
came up from
a different floor
to say to me
that when we die,
we choose the people
we want to be with.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
fourwindowspress 