by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Let me tell you
that the old gods
will not help us.
When we pray
by the wayside
they will not
listen to our tears.
For they are deaf,
stone deaf
like the ancient boulders
we walked between
this morning—
cold and unconcerned—
among the sweetness
of blooming honeysuckle.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It looks to me as though
you’ve been around, perhaps,
since time began—
and I have lived at least
as long.
Oh? Only that much time?
I’m sure there was no life
before for you or me.
How could I know your face
so well?
As well as some old rock
I’ve seen hang, clinging
to a mountain wall,
and I know what wave of brightness,
or of darkness, to expect there
waiting for me.
You step and make some rounded move.
I know beforehand which way to go.
How could I know? Unless. . .
You’ve been around, perhaps,
since time began.
I know I’ve lived at least as long.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Perhaps,
if we didn’t want
to go to a better place—
they said when he died
he went to a better place—
we would want to take care
of the earth
and other species.
Perhaps,
if we thought
of the earth
as our better place,
we would revere it–
the forest and animals
would be our cathedral.
This morning
the cornered possum
lay down and played dead
until the children and dog left.
Then she got up and ran away,
returning to her cherished life,
her better place.
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
Unearthly stillness,
except for the sound of water
running in rivulets
down the face of cliffs
to the Great lake.
That is earthly.
Sandhill cranes
landing
as if on skirts of air,
suspended in mid-air,
slowly coming down
to start their spring dance:
Unearthly.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
a photograph of Lake Michigan by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
They were both
hanging by threads,
trying to hold together,
exhausted,
talking to people:
Lost yet another child–
But those threads
will widen,
grow strong
when they decide to live
again,
for the living–
like the herd of deer at dusk
we saw
when we drove
back across the white frozen fields
in a clearing,
on the side of a steep hill,
clinging to threads
in a trampled field
surrounded by deep winter snows.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 