by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I can’t remember
when I learned
to love animals,
but it was when
I was very young,
along with my three sisters.
Perhaps it started
when we were called
good-for-nothing girls,
forcing us toward
the animals.
It was where I learned
animals love their young
as much as we love
ours,
when the mother cow,
desperate that night,
cried in low,
hysterical bellows
for her dead calf.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The universe
throws out poems
across the stars,
but only the poet
catches them.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
What is this chef, this cook
that comes to gather
strung out, grumbling
friends and relatives?
Is she not a mere merchant
of the kitchen?
An employee of a restaurant?
But no, I think.
A magician or alchemist,
one who binds up the disgruntled
by cooking magic.
Her creations stir in
the hearts of these people
a language of love
they had never felt before,
or ever will again.
Why, these two are speaking
when they haven’t for years.
I think it must have been
that rare French wine, or,
perhaps that unusual, roasted
animal from the forest.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Every winter Great Lakes ships come to the Sturgeon Bay Shipyards for refurbishing after a long season on the water. This year 16 ships, small to large, have come into the harbor and been parked at the Shipyards in the Bay’s ice.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The threads
on the hem of the skirt
have been pulled out,
leaving the earth
jagged and uneven,
wounded
like the trapper
this morning
ripping the fox
from the trap
after crushing its skull,
leaving the lake’s edge
uneven.
Threads pulled out.
Threads
that bound us
that morning
as a gray fox
sprang in front of us,
a delightful look on his face
as he carried his prey in his mouth.
Threads that pulled us
to the earth’s bosom,
holding us to a cherished breast.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She rolled
up the mat,
turned out
the lights,
and we are plunged
into darkness.
December is like
living in a cave,
but the earth
will not hear of it,
unfolds her fetal position
in her darkened room
and allows light to emerge
longer in the morning
and afternoon—
Sunlight able
to warm our deepest bones.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When I awake
I will not go to the theater,
play parts, do different characters,
but will be who I am.
I will never go back
to that again,
but will go where
there is wilderness and wildlife,
running water, and laps of waves—
See snorting deer.
I am my raw self;
I have no rifle,
and my bent toward you
is harmony.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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