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!
Tag Archives: poem
Snowstorm
Prayer
Is the prayer
of the Snowy Egret
less
than the Monk’s supplication?
Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Move
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
They packed
the odds and ends
of the house in the car—
along with the plants and dog.
She wanted to leave
at noon, but he wanted
more time to say goodbye
to his friends.
They left at 6.00 P.M.
No one was there
to say goodbye
after twenty-five years.
They pulled out onto the Interstate
towards Duluth–a six hour drive.
They waved goodbye
and also said some
“Good Riddances”
to “Their Town.”
A semi was following
behind them
and pulled up alongside.
He rolled down his window
and hollered, “Goodbye”—
Then waved again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis
fourwindowspress 