Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

Language of the Women

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The women of the village
started to weave
a new language
into their fabric—
shapes and forms
into their dress,
so they could communicate
with each other.

The men of the village
had treated them cruelly,
along with the children
and the animals
(whose spirits are interwoven).
Girls that tried to escape
had their ears and noses
cut off or worse.

Now, when the women
are in the market,
watched and separated,
they are able to send
messages to each other.

They are getting stronger
every day—

Mighty like the great river
that one day will flow out of that country.

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Prayer

Is the prayer
of the Snowy Egret
less

than the Monk’s supplication?

Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Autumn

Photograph by Sonja Bingen

poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis

She listens
as closely as a lover listens
for the first
sign of her love’s approaching.

Suddenly,
she rushes and embraces winter,
quieted and covered by the coolness
of his death-white arms.

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Panther Moon, an abstract pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Life

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

we went past
somebody’s place,
and there were things
sitting all over
and kids
and a woman looking
out a window
at a cat,
and the kids
were in puddles
with their eyes in oceans,
and they were waiting
for a storm or something,
and the place
looked twice as junky
as it did when the snow was,
but it didn’t matter
because it smelled warm,
and the sky was heavy,
and life stood in the mud, open-mouthed.

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Gray-White Geese

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Put your arms around me
to keep the desert winds
from blowing through me.

Now!

As the snow clouds have gathered
like gray-white geese
gathering on water.

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Palais de Justice

This photograph by Alazanto, our son, Kevin Davis, seems to be an appropriate companion to Ethel Mortenson Davis’s poem, To the Innocent below.

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To the Innocent

For Troy Davis

by Ethel Mortenson 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.

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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.

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An Eve of Wind and Shakespeare

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

This wind of eve
has a tinge of Hamlet’s madness
that harbors
the fear of this world
and the next.

The howling witch
casts a fear of man
across my throat and chin.
Blackness seeps
into my brain.
We cannot live,
nor do we want to die.
It is the worst of life and death.

How can I say
or write this word
when she takes
my tongue and hands
and leaves in their place
twigs to scratch with.

I glimpse the view
of the moon backwards
in my mirror—a kinder,
gentler heart.

This windy eve has a tinge
of Hamlet’s madness.

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