by Ethel Mortenson Davis
One moment of madness
in a thousand is enough
when the brain slips
back into some old wound,
a wound made almost painless
by the shading of years.
Yet the old grooves
are easily found—
like a seal of shame
worn open in the sun.
And in the splitting of madness
all is lost to one emotion,
but regained
in the clear-formed thought
as seeing the precious stone
occasionally in deep rock.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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