by Ethel Mortenson Davis
He was the head
of Oncology,
a great mountain of a man
who wore a beautiful suit.
He greeted the young man
who was dying and his parents.
When the young man’s friends
went above the doctor’s head
to try to get him admitted
to another hospital,
for they loved the young man,
the doctor never came back
to check on the dying man,
but sent his assistant—
would not acknowledge the parents
when they saw him in the hallways.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“You must come.”
“No, not yet.”
“You have no choice.”
“But I must right something
in my life.
Wait till morning.”
“You have no more mornings
in your quiver.”
“Oh.”
“Now, let go
of the rim
of the Great Canyon.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When the rarest
rain shower
finally comes to the desert
in early spring,
it softens the rocky soils,
soil that feels
like the ears of horses,
velvet and warm,
ears you want to kiss
or hold,
or the soft lips
of the work horse
who used to search
my deep pockets—
winter pockets–
for the carrot
or apple.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Sierra mountains
are home to the Kogi,
descendents of the Tairona,
an indigenous tribe of Columbia.
In 1514 a Spanish Conquistador
stood on the shores of what now
is Columbia and said to the Tairona,
“I will kill everyone of you
and bring every bad thing upon you.”
Some Tairona fled
to the high Sierra mountains,
and there they have lived
for five-hundred years.
“We descendents of the Tairona
have a message
for Younger Brother.
“You, Younger Brother,
who never listens,
are cutting up the Great Mother,
cutting out her kidneys and intestines
by digging for minerals and oil
and cutting the forests down.
“You are bringing the world
to an end–it will go black.
We have been to the tops
of the Sierra’s and have seen
the glaciers disappearing.
All the rivers from these
are drying up,
and soon the people will die.
“The Tairona have taken care
of the earth, but you,
Younger Brother, are killing
the Great Mother,
even selling the clouds.”
copyright, 
White Ermine Upon Her Shoulders, 2011.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Yesterday
I caught a glimpse
of my reflection
in a window,
an old, white-haired person
I did not recognize.
But the person
inside,
an ageless bell,
leapt like the hare
we saw this morning on our walk
far above our heads
and sent its
resonance of rapture
out across
the snow-covered mountains
as the wind
began to shape it.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I remember you
the last time,
when everything
I did grated on
you
and spilled
out of your eyes
onto the ground.
Even the black dog,
the one you carried
in your arms
out of that place,
tried to catch your
eyes,
but you turned
away.
I tried not to look at
the disappointment
that spilled
out over her eyes
onto the ground.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The deaf-mute
stands in darkness
unable to communicate
himself to us.
Wait.
He touches me…
and in the blackness
his touch
pierces
to the very bones within me,
deeper than the deep kidneys,
quenching
my unquenchable
thirst,
bringing dewdrops
to my raging
fire.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 