by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We are in need of the Archangel to come down
and tell us we have lost paradise,
to come down and tell us we have lost the wonderment
of the child as he looks into the face of the black and white warbler,
or the wonderment of multi-colored lichen
on the facade of giant boulders.
We are in need of an Archangel to tell us we have lost heaven,
and there will be no Messiah to save us from ourselves.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis from her book, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico
A prince stepped
out on our land
this morning
from some far away place.
He wore a spectacular black headdress
and was dressed
all in blue
with geometric checkers
across his shoulders.
I slipped an extra banquet
out to him
so he would stay
a bit longer.
But he wiggled his white eyebrows,
a fine prince of a fellow,
then hurried off
to catch a wind.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
When Ethel Mortenson Davis and I created this site while we lived in New Mexico, we did so partially to make sure that we had a creative place to not only showcase some of the poetry and art we have both produced throughout our lifetimes but to also honor our son, Kevin Michael Davis. Kevin had died in Poughkeepsie New York where he was a web designer for Vassar College after a short struggled against aggressive cancer. While we put this blog together, we were both still in the throes of grieving and trying to deal with Kevin’s loss.
Now, Bennison Books, a publisher in Great Britain, has come out with a new anthology, Leaving, an anthology of poetry about dying, grief, and the mystery of absence. The anthology features poems by both Ethel and I as well as some of the finest poets writing anywhere, Cynthia Jobin, John Looker, and A. Carder. As the forward to this magnificent volume says,
Both the grueling reality of dying and its indefinable mystery are revealed in this diverse collection. Grief is tranformative; we are profoundly changed by it. It is also prismatic, imposing new insights, a wider breadth of vision.
The new anthology is available at https://www.amazon.com/Leaving-anthology-poetry-mystery-absence/dp/1999740831/ref=sr_1_1?crid=S3YX5MBBHIVN&keywords=Leaving+Bennison+Books&qid=1699623562&s=books&sprefix=leaving+bennison+books%2Cstripbooks%2C104&sr=1-1
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
For Troy Davis
I hope you are in a place where there is justice, where there is love unconditionally, the end, where young men no longer are lynched by ropes, or the machinations of killers, where there is light and not the suffocating, ethered mud, a place where you will rise above humanness. I hope you are in a place called Justice, a place that will never be named Georgia.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
On World Poetry Day
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Maple sugar moon, golden-eyed like maple sap boiling over wood fires. Finally, you tell us of the coming spring— sweetness that brings satisfaction, one more year to get things right.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Forever is not a word In our universe, nothing in it stays the same. One day our earth will become pieces in the cosmic pond. We are not forever. Your movement in the early morning through the quiet rooms will one day drift away. Forever is not a word in our universe. One day we too will have to part.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Sometimes I want to go to you but remember that I have put you in a special room far from here, a room, nonetheless, with an open door, so that I can enter anytime. So, I can see your smile when you were running with Shiva, the golden lab, through autumn leaves in a special forest long ago. So, I can walk through that door anytime.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The moon is most beautiful at her beginning, or end. Like a fine-edged sickle punctuating the blackness. Minimal. A lot like you. Not outstanding. Almost missed. Nevertheless beautiful. Step outside with me. We’ll see her from the steps. Let your skin touch the cold.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems
At our granddaughter Sophia's wedding, Ethel wrote one poem for the wedding that she read out loud during the ceremony. A friend of our daughter Mary read another poem by Ethel that was written 55 years ago during our courtship. Then, at the reception I sat down and wrote a poem commemorating the event as the mariachi band played and people people danced as sunlight streamed out of the clouds for the first time all day. The poem Ethel read: Hope Dear Grandmother, today your great, great granddaughter is getting married to a fine, young man, and they promise their love is greater than their parents’ love and their grandparents’ love. They promise they will be happier than their parents were or their grandparents. And they promise their children will be loved more than all the ancestors put together. Dear Grandmother, this is their promise, and this is our hope. The poem from 55 years ago: How Could I Know? It looks to me as though you’ve been around, perhaps, since time began— and I have lived at least as long. Oh? Only that much time? I’m sure there was no life before for you or me. How could I know your face so well? As well as some old rock I’ve seen hang, clinging to a mountain wall, and I know what wave of brightness, or of darkness, to expect there waiting for me. You step and make some rounded move. I know beforehand which way to go. How could I know? Unless. . . You’ve been around, perhaps, since time began. I know I’ve lived at least as long. The poem I wrote: At My Granddaughter’s Wedding First the bald eagle above the bay, water dancing light on lines of waves, then cranes in the greening field, Babies and parents communicating with legs, moving necks, and wings in the sun, and then the rumor of storms brewing black clouds in the north, stirring with big winds. But then, after a night of worry, the ceremony was to be outside, the wedding day came, cloudy, a fifty percent chance of rain. But then the rain didn’t come. Wedding roses lined paths to the small wooden church. Then, the words as ancient as human spirits, were spoken by the bride and groom, and then the sun came out as the mariachi celebration began, as clouds thinned, and my granddaughter and her love danced as music rose into an evening sky— and love was everywhere. Everywhere.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Fannie Lou Hamer was beaten by a policeman until he couldn’t beat her any longer, so he had his partner continue the beating. That day, Fannie Lou left part of her brain there on the ground, but she didn’t leave her courage. She came back for more. Because she only wanted her people to be free, free from fear, free from beatings, free from death just free to enjoy life, to be wholly human.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
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