Tag Archives: poem

Sonnet 34

by Thomas Davis

We talked about the birthday cake he’d had
for over twenty years. He couldn’t eat,
but said, I’d eat a bite right now. His mother, glad
to feed his memories, got to her feet
and drove to Rhinebeck for the right supplies,
the afternoon familiar as she whipped and stirred
an angel food and let it slowly rise
into an arabesque of whipped cream whirred
with Marciano cherries, chocolate,
and mother’s love as old as he was on that day.
She brought the cake out with a coffee pot
and beamed to see a smile and sense of play

that fought, a moment, pain and hours of dread
he braved while in the prison of his bed.

Note:Kevin and Tamar’s apartment, where we spent two weeks under Hospice care, is located in Rhinesbeck, NY.

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A Short Bird

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

A
short bird
came today
to lie in the snow.
He told me
he was forgetting
how to fly
and forgot
how the sky
looked at night,
and he told me
he was forgetting
how he wanted to fly
(upside down sometimes),
and how he wanted
to sit on the top
of some tree he knew,

and he forgot forgetting there,
and the snow came
and covered his scream,
and he forgot nothing.

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Sonnet 12

by Thomas Davis

Before we reached the bank two twelve year olds
were on the water in the good canoe.
Both Brand and I looked at our sons1, their coup
apparent as they grinned at us, both bold
enough to know that, ten feet out, they controlled
the moment even though the wind still blew
and rain was falling hard, the clouds a stew
of swirling turbulence and cold.

“Okay,” Brand said. Inside the inlet, calm
prevailed, but as we went into the lake
the waves were higher than our heads. The qualms
I’d had at seeing youngsters make their break
to manhood with a crazymad aplomb
unmanned me–as they left me in their wake.

1 Brand Windmiller and his son, Jesse, and Kevin.

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Living in a Moment

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I have dropped
most moments
onto the darkened sand,
except for a few
that I have held in my hand—
like a small child
holds your hand—
too tightly.

There I go, in secret,
into the darkened cloak
of the Great Purple Hairstreak,
getting lost among
the bright blue and yellow jewels
at the outer edge
of her wings.

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White Delirium

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Oh,
how the white delirium
has set in me.

Memories ache in my throat.
Sweetness stains my mouth.

I cannot forget
your unfamiliar eyes
that cried out to me,

the end of us!

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Faluga

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Written after hearing a Marine’s story
on British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) radio

The young marine tells his story.

In Falluja they struggled:
eye gouging
hair pulling
biting.
It would be a fight
to the finish.

The American noticed
the Iraqi was a very young man.
He could smell
the man’s breath,
taste his sweat,
feel the broken needle
in his shirt pocket.

The Marine wondered
why he had signed up.
He wasn’t prepared
to kill a man
with his bare hands.

Then the Iraqi bit
a chunk out of his hand.
The American reacted
with rage,
found his knife
in his pocket—
the same knife
he opened his ration bag with,

thrust it into the Iraqi
below his collar bone,
into the artery,
then pumped the man’s neck.

When life was almost out
of his eyes,
the Iraqi reached up
and gently touched
the American’s hair
and the side of his face.

originally published in I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

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Sonnet 5

I look upon his face, eyes closed, skin yellow.
His mother sits beside him in a chair,
her waiting silent, the currents in the ebb-flow
of illness mestasizing love and care
against malignancy, confusion, breath
that pauses much too long, then raggedly
resumes to indicate expected death
is not yet now, will be, God, hopefully,
another moment on another day.
His head slides to the side. His mother takes
a pillow, puts it by his head, her way
of caring, loving in the moves she makes.
I look upon his face and almost see
how mothers are, for sons, eternity.

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Snowstorm

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Dragging on the valley floor,
moist drapes of clouds
spread open a window
to the sacred mountain—
white ermine across her shoulders.

Complete, at last!

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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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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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