a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
Jays
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We saw
jays
emaciated
from the drought,
crying in the desert.
I remember…
As little girls
we leaned close
to listen
to the tallest
of us
as she said,
“I know how the world will end…
Man will destroy himself.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Sweet Corn in the Desert
Ethel grew up on a dairy farm not far from Wausau, Wisconsin. The farm, its woods, and the stream that ran through the farm often finds its way into her poetry, but perhaps the greatest skill she took away from her childhood was her ability to grow anything anywhere. The Pueblo and Navajo who live in the country around Continental Divide have traditionally grown the three sisters: Corn, squash, and beans. We had not lived in New Mexico for long before Ethel picked up the magic of this combination of plants. This year, however, her corn has been the most spectacular of any year since we moved here. She made compost all winter and spring and has fed the small corn patch in our yard strategically since early spring. She has watered most mornings during this terrible year of drought, and the result is the tallest sweet corn to be found anywhere close to here. The beans, wrapped around the corn stalks, is just as profuse, resulting in a good year for Ethel’s crops.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
The Visit
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
From the air
I recognize
the greenness of the land,
but especially
the straight, square lines
of sections and highways—
unlike the winding, dusty
roads back home.
I bring a rose
for you, Mama,
nestled in among
names like Berg, Nyquist
And Olson.
Even here
they pick on a person
that does not fit in—
like chickens do
to the least of their own.
These are the descendents
of people who threw
boiling water
from upstairs windows
on the Anishinabe people
as they were marched through
the little towns of Minnesota.
I touch the turquoise
around my neck
and feel its warmth.
In that vast desert
back home,
there is a place called acceptance,
a place my people
would call
a wasteland.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Red Mesa
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
While Sonja, our daughter, and William, our grandson, visited in New Mexico, we went up a canyon not far from our house in Continental Divide. Both Sonja and Ethel took photos as we drove up the canyon, stopping at different times on the way. The light was perfect, resulting in some spectacular work by both photographers. Sonja and William, after this photo was taken, hiked to the red cliffs that rose above them in the sunlight.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Night Sky
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The stars laugh and laugh,
laughing in an ocean of laughter,
moving-water laughter,
until the sky can hold no more
and joins in laughing
with black face and shining teeth.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
New Mexico
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Here
we breathe in sky
and out sky,
like the trees
that grow out of rocks,
breathing in sky and living.
He is our father,
the one who made us,
the one who takes
the sky sounds
of hummingbird wings
and gives them to us,
to be our hearts.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Chickens
by Ethel Mortenson Davis after a conversation with Rita Hawes
Bought one of those
genetically modified chickens
(the one with the big breasts)
home,
but she just sat there
in a clump
in the middle
of the yard–
didn’t get up
and peck and
scratch around
because her skinny
little legs couldn’t
lift her big chest
off the ground.
But that’s okay,
because a few weeks
in those little wire cages,
voila!
Big chicken breasts.
Millions of little cages whose
chickens are ripe
for picking.
My how we love our big breasts!
copyright 2010 I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Absence
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
What else could
I do today?
What else but work the soil?
Work the soil
around the corn and beans,
the green squash.
The beans are vining,
feeling for the corn’s torso.
The corn is up
to my shoulders
and beginning to tassel out.
The afternoon clouds
have brought
a hard male rain
in the hottest
and driest year
we remember.
What else could we do
but work the soil?
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 