Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

John Hope Franklin

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

John Hope Franklin
remembers
he and his mother
boarding a train
and getting on a white coach
by accident.

“They stopped the train
and threw us off.”

He was six years old,
crying and afraid,
but his mother told him
that he was as good
as anyone else
in the whole world,
and that he shouldn’t
waste his energy crying,
but instead use it
to prove his worth.

John Hope went on
to get a PhD from Harvard,
rewriting American-African history.

In 1934 he handed
Franklin Roosevelt a petition
against the Cordie Cheek lynching,
marched for civil rights
in Montgomery Alabama in 1965,
testified against Robert Bork’s
nomination to the Supreme Court in 1987,
and won the Medal of Freedom in 1995.

He recently said,
“when I reached 80 years old
I thought it would change,
but instead I’m insulted every day
of my life.”

Copyright © 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

Notes: A “quiet lynching” is how Sheriff Claude Godwin described the hanging of Cord Cheek, a twenty-year-old African American. Cheek was accused of, but never indicted for, attacking an eleven-year-old white girl. When the Maury County,Tennessee grand jury refused to indict Cheek for the alleged attack, residents took matters in their own hands in 1933. Franklin’s testimony during the confirmation of conservative Robert Bork to the Supreme Court in 1987 helped lead to Bork’s failure to gain confirmation by the United States Senate.

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Song of Ecstasy

a pastel and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Song of Ecstasy

She is the sort that hears the song
the hills make after a heavy rain—
a humming sound one hears
first through the finger tips,
then the ears.

She’s the sort that dances with antelope at dusk,
playing in the field until dawn.

She’s the sort that makes the insect song—
not bell, nor click, but a rhythm in-between:

like the sound the silver pieces
sewn on her dress and leggings make,
a sound like wind and bell
as she makes her grand entry
in a circle around the village—

head held high,
her hair flowing behind her—

tasting the song of pure ecstasy
like honey on the tongue.

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Enchantment

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I sleep
between the moons of New Mexico—
sunset and sunrise.
My bed is the yellow-ocher grasses
dotted with green juniper and piñon.

I am the summer sun climbing
from the life-giving phase
into the deadly phase–
like the rattlesnake,
deadly and life-giving,
that blends into the yellow grasses
as it careens along
the canyon’s face.

I cover myself
with the blue mountains,
with moon-like stars.

I am the spirit of wonderment.
I am a spell
upon every living being
in my path.

Copyright © 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

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The Road

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Because this night
is so cold and beautiful
with a thin-lipped moon
just above the horizon,
we will walk the road.

The road over there–
that is waiting,
the one that climbs
up into the Zuni Mountains.

A man once said
that my poems
were only scratches on paper.

The light is getting late,
and the dogs are anxious.
The poems are waiting out there
in the wildness
to say and be,

themselves.

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Dancer with Headdress

A pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Zuni

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

There is a place
on the high desert
where the sky
kneels down
and talks (with the people),

and where the blue mountains
pull them up to its heart—

where each one
has a place,
and no one
is left behind,

a place of little water,
where each cup
is drunk with gratitude—

and where children
on the school bus
stand and applaud
when the ditches
are running with water,

or when the mountain is white
in the morning
from last night’s
surprise spring snow.

Note: The Zuni people are a Pueblo Nation living in western New Mexico. This poem came from a story told by John Carter North at the Inscription Rock Trading Post poetry group meetings on Sunday morning.

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Dance of Life

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The threatening trees
by day
turned at night
to dancers round a fire,

the moon so bright
it made a jar-like sky
clear and empty,

a dance of life
with turning hypnotism,
patterned movements,
rushing fire-sparks.

The trees bent,
turning with the fire-moon,
all moving
on the breath of the wind,

fire and dancers
united
into an upward-moving flame.

The moon danced.
The trees shined.

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Ladder

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The desert tarantula
ambles across
the roadways
and wide open lands
in late summer
when the monsoons
are done,
during the mating season.

Perhaps
they can show
us how to put
our ladders against
the sky
so we can climb
out of this place,

ladders made
of silk and that hang
on nothing, so
we can climb
out of our hole.

I get close
to one tarantula
but he gets
in his warrior stance,
ready to strike.

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Stoneboat

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

For my final journey
I would like to take
a sleigh ride
through snow-laden roads
where branches are bent low,

a ride
behind a matched pair
of Belgian horses
whose gait becomes regal
when they begin to trot,
and bells on black harnesses
make music with the dance.

You came that day
with horses and a stoneboat
to pick us up at school.
All that day it snowed,
and at noon we ate our soup in jars
warmed on the wood stove.

You took our cousins home,
your brother’s–the one
you never saw eye to eye with–
and dropped them
within a quarter of a mile
of their house.

The stoneboat became
a glider on top of the snow,
and at home you left it behind
the shed until spring
and rock-picking time
when the earth heaves up rocks,
and we heaved up stones
too heavy for girls
on to the stoneboat.

For my final journey
I would like to take
a sleigh ride
behind two Belgians.

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Winter Solstice

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Light is returned to light
on the high desert.
December’s darkness
never reaches the ground
like in the northern regions.

The north,
where once snow drifted
over tops of fences
and cold nights turned drifts
into white, frozen dunes
solid enough to support
the weight of a young girl and her dog
as she ran to celebrate
new-found freedom.

It was here,
near the southern corner of the field,
where she saw the great snowy owl.
He dipped down to her level,
scrutinizing her
with piercing yellow eyes.
She felt both fear and amazement
as the great white body
brushed near her face,
close enough to see the black spots
on his white feathers.

Now we roll the darkness
with our feet
into the fire,
amazed by the brilliance
of the light.

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