Ethel Mortenson Davis
Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
Daughters and Sons
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I remember
when our daughters
became “a certain age”
and left us—
not just in a physical way,
but from our hearts as well.
I was sure this was what
raising children was about—
children leave you at a certain age,
never to return.
But they did return and
made that full circle
back to us, but
with “certain stipulations.”
Our son left,
came back,
then left again,
angry.
We thought he would
never return,
but he did again
at his death:
Came back full circle
to say, I need you both.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Drought
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Had I not gone the extra mile
this morning,
I would have missed
the unexpected
deep purple flowers
of the Desert Lupine—
shockingly beautiful–
with undertones of crimson
among the death-like color
of the gray rabbit brush.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Begging Gangs of Pakistan
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A young man tells
of his daughter
kidnapped by gangs:
“They kidnap children
and cut off their arms or feet,
sometimes a leg,
and set them
in front of mosques so people
will drop coins in front of them.
“They place them throughout the city
and kidnap many children.
“Our daughter had escaped.
They pulled all her hair out.
She is always terrified.
“I used to think the Devil
was outside of us….
but we are the Devil.
“Humankind is the Devil.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Day
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is a day
when the earth
turns just right,
when fish swim
close to the top
of the Great Lake
to feed on insects or plants,
when black-winged pelicans
dive in and out to fish,
and fishermen gather
in clumps, throwing
out their lines.
It is a day
before the storm,
humid and cloudy,
when the two of you
think of ways to
come together,
as part
of a turning of the universe,
a love that blows
a sweetness over us—
something unexpected.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Winds
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The desert spring
does not come
in warm, dark thunderstorms,
but in relentless winds
that carry the precious nitrogen
to thirsty pines–
like the cosmic winds
that once brought
seed to our earth
a long time ago,
starting a chain
of endless life.
Endless winds
that blow everything
that is not bound or attached,
uncaging last year’s seeds
for the strange new birds
that have come for spring nesting.
Winds that loosen
the cords and strings
that hold us,
freeing us so we are ready
to accept the holy seed.
We place it in Her darkness
there, together on hands and knees.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Wolves
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The wolf has been reintroduced
throughout Europe.
In the Northern regions
a woman from the Scandinavian countries
said, ”We have a right to shoot an animal
that kills our sheep and cattle.”
In the Southern Regions
of Italy, Spain, and Romania,
an old woman of Romania
said, “We don’t care if the wolf
takes a sheep once in a while,
because we like to see them—
they are part of our culture.”
The wounded wolf
crawls behind a waterfall
as a man takes aim.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Apple-Time
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Some sea gulls
passed me fast
today
and said
some clocks
had killed
my
apple-time,
leaving
a chilled
body
to sit
on
the warm
cement steps
widened-
eyed against
some
shade
of
sky.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Numbers
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The oil spill of the Exxon Valdez keeps on giving
for 18 years it’s kept on giving.
6000 workers along the shoreline sprayed chemicals on the oil,
breathing in the chemicals as well as the oil.
Many have died or have health problems.
The oil fell back onto the shore.
213 rivers have been destroyed—-
no longer can support life or spawn fish.
Thousands of tons of herring died–the waters still contain oil.
“Just watch us”, Exxon corporate leaders said,
“We’ll take care of you.”
The Supreme Court said Exxon didn’t have to pay
5 billon to people of Prince William Sound—
only 586 million—about 4 days profit for Exxon Mobile,
about 1 tenth of the losses
for the white and native peoples of Prince William Sound.
There have been 12 suicides and a divorce in every family
in the fishing community of 6000.
It just keeps on giving—
2 oil spills
in the world
a month.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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