by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is a day
when the earth
turns just right,
when fish swim
close to the top
of the Great Lake
to feed on insects or plants,
when black-winged pelicans
dive in and out to fish,
and fishermen gather
in clumps, throwing
out their lines.
It is a day
before the storm,
humid and cloudy,
when the two of you
think of ways to
come together,
as part
of a turning of the universe,
a love that blows
a sweetness over us—
something unexpected.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When will we take
half the earth and stars
back?
Stand up and protect
the children,
the animals
and the earth?
When will we take back
Our God?
Our Mother?
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The snowflakes that hit
the Patagonian glacier
take three-hundred years
before they are released–
released into fluid streams
that etch their way
to the bottom of the
great glacier,
breaking it’s back
before moving it out
Into the ocean.
There should be places
where no man
sets his foot.
The earth doesn’t seem
to be the right place
for man….
or
mankind does not seem
to fit the earth,
but other species know
how to live
with boundaries.
When there is scarcity,
other animals know never to reach
a population
greater than the resources.
Man is looking
to be released
from his own doing,
released from
his own glacier.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There is a dance
the bee makes
when it has found food.
It dances in the hive
with all the other bees
looking on
until each one
understands the dance
and knows where to fly–
unlike the astronauts
who came around
from the dark side
of the moon
and saw (for the first time)
what the earth looked like,
new and bright
and more beautiful
than we could have imagined–
a blue-green jewel
shrouded in white clouds.
They wanted to tell us
the best thing
about going into space
was the earth itself.
They wanted to do
the dance for us,
but we could not
get the sense of it.
We could not imitate
the dance.
The Dance copyright © I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, 2010.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Poetry
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
by William Bingen, our grandson, his first poem
The white people took his land.
Earned respect from his people.
Confidently fought in battles.
United the Shawnee People with his bravery.
Many people didn’t believe the white people had the right to take the land.
Shawnee battled the new settlers.
Earth is beloved to them.
He died in the Battle of Thames in 1813.
Filed under Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
To Sonja
I had no choice
because the earth and sky
threw up so much
poetry,
no choice
but to accept
the High Tea Ceremony.
That night,
and all the day before,
the earth was cold
with wind-driven snow,
inhuman nurses
in an old hospital,
the father barred
from my room.
Finally your time came
in the early morning
with dark skies and gray clouds
like the snow clouds
over the mesas this morning
that came
with wind-driven snow
and ice crystals.
But in a moment,
the sun had shone
in the threatening blackness,
and a great arc of rainbow
bowed across the western
and northern skies,
making it all worthwhile.
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
fourwindowspress 