a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter
Tag Archives: dog
Shiva
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
In my two weeks of absence
I deeply missed
Shiva, my dog.
When I arrived home
she danced in circles;
then approached me slowly,
smelling my head—
smelling bone, flesh and brain fluid
slipped into my breath.
At night she lay
her head across
my chest,
like the old nurse
from the night shift,
an angel of mercy,
who came to my rescue.
The old dog who knew
about healing;
she showed me
how to be human.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Rainwater
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
All night
I heard the dog
barking for someone
to help him.
Over the week
his barks became weaker,
until they ceased.
Today the rains
came gently, slowly.
I had to adjust
the rain gutter outside
and got my hair wet.
Rain in the desert
is a cleansing,
renewing
experience,
cleaning what man
leaves in all the earth.
Passing the hall mirror,
I noticed my hair
shiny, soft and curly.
I remember when you
ran outside to catch
the rainwater.
You said it made your hair
so beautiful and shiny,
cleaning it
like nothing else.
Today, in the field,
the vultures are circling.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Dog
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The dog who came to the gate and put her nose in Ethel’s hand.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Dog
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The way you buried
your nose in my hand
made me unable to forget you
that cold morning
at daybreak.
Skin and bones you were.
Perhaps a boot to your neck,
or starvation,
sent you fleeing to my gate,
asking for help.
So I let you in.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Dispossessed
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She waits
at the automatic doors
of the Food Mart
knowing food
is close.
She has recently
given birth
and is swollen
with milk.
She makes eye contact
with every person
coming out of the doors,
but most don’t notice her.
One person says,
“Look at that dog.”
She finally leaves.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Story
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This morning
my black dog
found a story
in the grasses.
She sat down,
lingered and mulled
over it,
relishing every detail
and every character.
I hope that people
will linger and mull
over my poems
someday.
I could envision
them being copied
and recopied
on exquisite parchment
by cloistered monks…
But if not,
the joy
is in the playing
of the stringed instrument
and riding its vibrations
out and across
the face of the moon,
lingering and mulling
over its details.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Habitat
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The monsoons
sweeten the bounty
of the high desert meadows.
Curious blossoms
burst out everywhere.
Green grass
carried in the bellies of horses
finally becomes enough.
Perhaps the monsoons
will not return next year.
Our earth is not a permanent habitat.
One day our sun will explode
and melt our earth.
It will not care for us forever–
like my dog knows instinctively
when I leave her in the driveway.
Perhaps I will not return.
Perhaps that means
the end of her.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Bell
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I heard
a temple bell
far away—
a deep rich
summoning voice.
Then
a medicine man
came to my bed,
beating the air
around my feet
and head,
beating the cobwebs
of sadness stretched
over me.
A dream.
I know because
the dog did not stir.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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