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
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
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
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“I could never
live in a place
where it doesn’t rain
and isn’t green.”
“It’s the same earth
that’s wrapped around
the great lakes,
just farther west
and south.”
“What do you see in it?”
“I see clouds hugging
the tall mountains and not
letting go.
I see the white rose
and purple blossom
existing in the dry land
because they are sacred.
I see the people
come outside and celebrate
with dance
in the eternal circle
when the rains finally
do come.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The ancient peoples
yoked themselves
to the night sky,
studied the moon’s cycles,
the planets,
and solar eclipses.
We, however, at night,
tie ourselves
to the television, computer,
and cell phone,
barely noticing
the daily changes
in temperature,
or lunar phases.
We have cut the cord,
lost our beginnings
and futures—
the time of when to start
spring planting,
the time of the salmon run
up the river,
and the time of calving
of elk and deer.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At dusk I found myself hurrying through the glacial forest.
The air was warm and humid, but the clay dust cool on my feet.
I was climbing the high trail to the foot bridge
that crossed the black granite waters.
The daylight was fading.
The moss-covered boulders looked like giants strewn
by some ancient glacier eons ago.
As the cold air rose around my legs,
multi-colored shells of snails criss-crossed the large tree trunks.
Water trickled down everywhere–through the moss carpet
thick with the red mushroom.
I had come here before, hoping to resolve a riddle,
but now I had a disease within my body and needed help.
Finally I reached the bridge, black and strong,
made with spaces between the floor planks wide enough
to see the great height at which I was.
The black river below looked like a black granite ribbon
glistening in the dim light.
Across the bridge I could see a clearing through the trees.
In the clearing was a large crowd of people.
Their faces were as warm as their hands.
Nightingale whispered:
These are people that have helped you
in some way throughout your life.
As I went back across the bridge
the moon was beginning to shine on the water,
but within me
I felt as if the sun was beginning to rise.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Crazy cottontail,
spinning in the desert,
running in circles
in snow
mixed with rain.
Must be happy,
back and forth.
Greening
of the world
means
eating again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
