pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Tag Archives: earth
Lost
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“Who were these people?”
“They were people
who overpopulated their planet,
depleting all its natural elements.”
“They were at continuous war
with each other,
never satisfied with their treaties.”
“Eventually they lost their atmosphere.”
“Then nothing stayed on the planet.
Everything blew off.”
“Yes, in just a few thousand years
their life and their planet died.”
“They called themselves Earth, I think.
Earth.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Heaven
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Heaven
An astronaut that repaired
the Hubble spacecraft
said recently
that when he stepped out
on his first spacewalk
and saw the lighted
blue and white earth
underneath him,
he knew
he was looking
at heaven.
I wonder how
we would have thought
of the land, the animals,
and the people
if we would have known
our earth was heaven?
If this was all the heaven
there will ever be?
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Poetry
The Cloak
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The earth dresses in
the cloak of humanity,
but it does not fit.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
How Hard
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We talked about children,
their schooling,
their boyfriends.
How they are becoming
serious about their relationships.
We talked about children
becoming people.
How hard it is.
We talked about
how hard creating
a new piece of art is.
How much energy
the making of art takes —
an extraordinary piece of art.
How hard that is:
Like the yellow orchid
in the forest this morning
among the blue waters.
How hard the earth struggled
to bring about that flower:
Like my ancestors
that were sailors,
sailing to other lands —
among the blue waters —
how hard.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Earth
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
If only it would snow,
white covering red;
red now is everywhere
in this world.
If you go up into space
all that is made by man is gray;
gray is everywhere
in this world.
I want to put a ladder
further up
so that what I see
is the red-brown
of the earth,
the green of vegetation,
and the lovely blue of water,
shrouded by a white,
see-through shawl
around her shoulders
where there is no longer gray.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
Threads
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The threads
on the hem of the skirt
have been pulled out,
leaving the earth
jagged and uneven,
wounded
like the trapper
this morning
ripping the fox
from the trap
after crushing its skull,
leaving the lake’s edge
uneven.
Threads pulled out.
Threads
that bound us
that morning
as a gray fox
sprang in front of us,
a delightful look on his face
as he carried his prey in his mouth.
Threads that pulled us
to the earth’s bosom,
holding us to a cherished breast.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Better Place
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Perhaps,
if we didn’t want
to go to a better place—
they said when he died
he went to a better place—
we would want to take care
of the earth
and other species.
Perhaps,
if we thought
of the earth
as our better place,
we would revere it–
the forest and animals
would be our cathedral.
This morning
the cornered possum
lay down and played dead
until the children and dog left.
Then she got up and ran away,
returning to her cherished life,
her better place.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Dance
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At sunrise
she began to dance
so that humanness
would seep back
into the earth,
into the lowest
parts of the earth.
She danced for
the murdered
and missing,
the lost and forsaken.
Then,
she danced
all through the night
for the inhumanness
that filled her heart,
for the hatred and lack of love
that had captured her.
She danced and danced
until inhumanity
drained out of her,
out of the farthest parts
of the earth,
until the sun
came back to the world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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