by Ethel Mortenson Davis
In the center
of our galaxy
the Milky Way,
a great black snake lives
and mesmerizes stars
so they will
get close enough
for her to swallow—
while, at the same time,
she gives birth
to new stars.
They come out of her
and go flying off
into the cosmos
as far as they can go
to escape
her clutches.
Copyright © 2011, White Ermine Across Her Shoulders
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
In winter
a boy or girl could ice skate
up the branch
of Little Sandy Creek
as far as their strength could hold out
before the heavy snows of January
spoiled the ice.
It was here
they would dream
about who they would become,
about what they would do
with their lives
when they grew up—
before the willows
became too thick and
turned them back,
or when the shallow spots,
under the bridges,
with stones
would stop them.
Charlie could skate for miles
before he went home
to put steaming copper kettles
of water on his stove
to bend slats of wood
to make skis with curled ends
before the heavy snows of January and February
swept across us.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, 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
pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I am going deep within myself,
to where gates no longer open,
but instead
walls are crossed upon walls
between the four directions.
Here is where the wolf
cannot penetrate again,
and the lion cannot eat my flesh.
Like some wounded animal
that crawls back to his source,
I am going deep within myself
to find the cool stillness.
I will not come out again
until my skin has thickened.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Song of Ecstasy
She is the sort that hears the song
the hills make after a heavy rain—
a humming sound one hears
first through the finger tips,
then the ears.
She’s the sort that dances with antelope at dusk,
playing in the field until dawn.
She’s the sort that makes the insect song—
not bell, nor click, but a rhythm in-between:
like the sound the silver pieces
sewn on her dress and leggings make,
a sound like wind and bell
as she makes her grand entry
in a circle around the village—
head held high,
her hair flowing behind her—
tasting the song of pure ecstasy
like honey on the tongue.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I sleep
between the moons of New Mexico—
sunset and sunrise.
My bed is the yellow-ocher grasses
dotted with green juniper and piñon.
I am the summer sun climbing
from the life-giving phase
into the deadly phase–
like the rattlesnake,
deadly and life-giving,
that blends into the yellow grasses
as it careens along
the canyon’s face.
I cover myself
with the blue mountains,
with moon-like stars.
I am the spirit of wonderment.
I am a spell
upon every living being
in my path.
Copyright © 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Because this night
is so cold and beautiful
with a thin-lipped moon
just above the horizon,
we will walk the road.
The road over there–
that is waiting,
the one that climbs
up into the Zuni Mountains.
A man once said
that my poems
were only scratches on paper.
The light is getting late,
and the dogs are anxious.
The poems are waiting out there
in the wildness
to say and be,
themselves.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The desert tarantula
ambles across
the roadways
and wide open lands
in late summer
when the monsoons
are done,
during the mating season.
Perhaps
they can show
us how to put
our ladders against
the sky
so we can climb
out of this place,
ladders made
of silk and that hang
on nothing, so
we can climb
out of our hole.
I get close
to one tarantula
but he gets
in his warrior stance,
ready to strike.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 