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
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When scientists discovered
the wings of a cricket
preserved in stone
from the Jurassic period,
they played its wings
and heard
an ancient love song
never heard
in our world before,
a new song.
This morning,
while driving home:
A colt had been flung
to the side of the road,
killed in the night
by a passing car,
its little body
nearly missed
because it was
so small—
small enough
to still be brought
to its mother’s belly,
its mother gone,
too.
a love song
unfinished.
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
Raven is a kicker.
He loves to have fun—
nose dives in the sky,
rides the sixty mile an hour winds,
sliding over the Santa Fe railroad
coming from California
and over highway 40
as the semis roll by.
Raven loves to make someone his joke—
sneaks up on his buddies
and scares them to death.
Smart old cuss too.
I saw him flying
with a pop can in his beak,
heading west toward Gallup.
He’ll do well.
They pay seventy cents a pound.
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
1
I was never invited
to the table,
but had to sit outside.
I reached
for another–
whose lap
I crawled on,
whose branches
of trees
reached
out to me
with their arms.
2
Old Mother,
who heals
with the rushing
waters of spring,
the quiet white
of deep winter snows,
with the smell of leaves
breaking down
in the fall
and the bright moonlight
on warm summer nights,
Old Mother reached out to me.
3
I was never invited
to the table,
but had to sit outside,
and there
I found another
who
gathered animal spirits
beside me
on another path
in another world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When I came close
to you,
you took a knife
and began
stabbing me all over.
And
the pain
was so great
I could hardly
bear it.
But, as I looked
into the mirror
there were
no wounds, no blood.
But I felt great pain
and many stab wounds.
How could this be?
I looked again
into the mirror,
and on your chest
were many wounds,
and
blood was pouring out
all over
your body.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
