by Ethel Mortenson Davis
For Sophia and Phoebe
Because this night is filled
with black-winged pelicans
coming in to land,
a sail being taken down,
a sliver of a moon
climbing above
the white birch trees,
and laugher from young girls
rising above the lapping waves,
no more can fit
into the evening.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I have dropped
most moments
onto the darkened sand,
except for a few
that I have held in my hand—
like a small child
holds your hand—
too tightly.
There I go, in secret,
into the darkened cloak
of the Great Purple Hairstreak,
getting lost among
the bright blue and yellow jewels
at the outer edge
of her wings.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Oh,
how the white delirium
has set in me.
Memories ache in my throat.
Sweetness stains my mouth.
I cannot forget
your unfamiliar eyes
that cried out to me,
the end of us!
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Written after hearing a Marine’s story
on British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) radio
The young marine tells his story.
In Falluja they struggled:
eye gouging
hair pulling
biting.
It would be a fight
to the finish.
The American noticed
the Iraqi was a very young man.
He could smell
the man’s breath,
taste his sweat,
feel the broken needle
in his shirt pocket.
The Marine wondered
why he had signed up.
He wasn’t prepared
to kill a man
with his bare hands.
Then the Iraqi bit
a chunk out of his hand.
The American reacted
with rage,
found his knife
in his pocket—
the same knife
he opened his ration bag with,
thrust it into the Iraqi
below his collar bone,
into the artery,
then pumped the man’s neck.
When life was almost out
of his eyes,
the Iraqi reached up
and gently touched
the American’s hair
and the side of his face.
originally published in I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
you
smell like
wild snow
or
of trees
that hug
the earth.
turn your head.
you can hear
the moss
cling to the sides
of trees
and the sun
make your hair
the color
of red honey.
not there.
leave that hill
unnoticed.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The women of the village
started to weave
a new language
into their fabric—
shapes and forms
into their dress,
so they could communicate
with each other.
The men of the village
had treated them cruelly,
along with the children
and the animals
(whose spirits are interwoven).
Girls that tried to escape
had their ears and noses
cut off or worse.
Now, when the women
are in the market,
watched and separated,
they are able to send
messages to each other.
They are getting stronger
every day—
Mighty like the great river
that one day will flow out of that country.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Is the prayer
of the Snowy Egret
less
than the Monk’s supplication?
Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Photograph by Sonja Bingen
poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She listens
as closely as a lover listens
for the first
sign of her love’s approaching.
Suddenly,
she rushes and embraces winter,
quieted and covered by the coolness
of his death-white arms.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 