Tag Archives: poems

The Healing Journey

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

At dusk I found myself hurrying through the glacial forest.
The air was warm and humid, but the clay dust cool on my feet.
I was climbing the high trail to the foot bridge
that crossed the black granite waters.
The daylight was fading.
The moss-covered boulders looked like giants strewn
by some ancient glacier eons ago.
As the cold air rose around my legs,
multi-colored shells of snails criss-crossed the large tree trunks.
Water trickled down everywhere–through the moss carpet
thick with the red mushroom.

I had come here before, hoping to resolve a riddle,
but now I had a disease within my body and needed help.
Finally I reached the bridge, black and strong,
made with spaces between the floor planks wide enough
to see the great height at which I was.
The black river below looked like a black granite ribbon
glistening in the dim light.
Across the bridge I could see a clearing through the trees.
In the clearing was a large crowd of people.
Their faces were as warm as their hands.

Nightingale whispered:

These are people that have helped you
in some way throughout your life.

As I went back across the bridge
the moon was beginning to shine on the water,
but within me

I felt as if the sun was beginning to rise.

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The Rhyming of Love

a love poem to Ethel by Thomas Davis

Our fathers died, and then your mother left
And took a train ride to her resting place.
There are no words for senses left bereft
The moment living left our son’s kind face.

Our love was glory when it first began to bloom.
We walked brown hills and felt the sky breathe light—
You took your hesitant, unlikely groom
And gave him more of life than was his right.

The days of work and turmoil, gladness, stress,
Have slowed us down and made us feel our years
As separateness has ground against the press
Of love through joyous days and bitter tears.

From gnarling roots of memories and time,
Love forges symphonies of changing rhyme.

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Cottontail

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Crazy cottontail,
spinning in the desert,
running in circles
in snow
mixed with rain.

Must be happy,
back and forth.

Greening
of the world
means
eating again.

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The Bread Maker

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

She had forgotten
how to make the bread,
how it had to feel
just right
before she laid it down
to rest.

She had forgotten
how to walk and talk

until
the old nurse came
to her at midnight
and pulled her
from her nightmare dream,
doing the work
of a true healer.

She had to relearn
the little things,
the simple things—
like how to make bread:

how to make the bread dough
feel like a baby’s skin
when it is ready
to rest and do its work—

like a baby feels
when you lay it down
to sleep
to do its work
of growing.

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Sun, Clouds, Goose, and Reeds

a children’s poem by Thomas Davis

A dragon ate away the night!
Clouds, white from fear, fled through the sky.
A morning trumpet stormed to flight
As reeds lay silent, hushed and shy.

The sun burned red into sky-blue.
Great ships sailed white from burning sun.
A lonely goose with honking flew
Up from hushed pickets, slim and glum.

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The Doctor

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

He was the head
of Oncology,
a great mountain of a man
who wore a beautiful suit.

He greeted the young man
who was dying and his parents.

When the young man’s friends
went above the doctor’s head
to try to get him admitted
to another hospital,
for they loved the young man,

the doctor never came back
to check on the dying man,
but sent his assistant—

would not acknowledge the parents
when they saw him in the hallways.

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In the Stone Fields

a love poem for Ethel Mortenson Davis by Thomas Davis

In the stone fields
The roots of the pinyon
Interweave with stone.
In the barest silence
Song is worn like a cloak
Of the brightest colors.

May my lips be as a brook
Bubbling forth songs
In praise of my love.
May my heart be as a pinyon,
Drawing forth music
From the barest stones

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Great Canyon

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

“You must come.”

“No, not yet.”

“You have no choice.”

“But I must right something
in my life.
Wait till morning.”

“You have no more mornings
in your quiver.”

“Oh.”

“Now, let go
of the rim
of the Great Canyon.”

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45. Before the End of the World

a passage from The Dragon Epic by Thomas Davis

Ssruanne swooped suddenly toward the ground.
Ruarther closed his eyes and forced the cry
Of terror in his throat to swallow bile.
And then the golden dragon let him fall
A foot into the snow, his eyes still filled
With dragons smashing cottages as fire
From arrows burned their bellies and their sides.
The image of the ancient dragon who had flown
Beside the golden dragon from the field,
Descending on the coal black dragon who
Had almost killed Ruarther in the moonlight,
Seemed false, impossible to understand.

Unharmed, he got up on his feet and saw
The stone wall circling the village, warmth
Inside of him as memories of life
He’d often treated badly, even though
The villagers, his kin, had honored him,
Came rushing in a flood of wondrous joy.

He ran toward the wall, climbed up, and stopped.
Below, his face a frozen mask, was Cragdon.
His blackened skin had peeled to show his skull.
He’d died an agonizing death by fire.
Ruarther sat, stunned, on the wall as dragons,
Attacking dragons with ferocity
And overwhelming streams of deadly flame,
Reordered everything he’d thought through life.
The golden dragon that he’d feared so much
Roared down on Ruanne’s cottage, claws extended.
The monster black that Cragdon and Ruarther
Had fought screeched as it rose to meet her claws.

What madness had possessed his life and made
Him choose a rationality so wrong
It had no anchor in reality?
He saw the bow that Cragdon once had held
And tried to force himself to leave the wall.

Above him spirit creatures, freed from chaos,
Streamed through the air toward the awful carnage
As dragons joined the humans fighting dragons.
The villagers, confused, had stopped their efforts
To launch their flaming arrows at hard scales
Since they could not discern which dragons fought
Beside them or against them in the battle.
The dragons wheeled and roared and filled the air
With colored scales, wings, flames, and aerobatics.
There were so many that it seemed as if
There was no room for empty winter skies.

Behind the spirit beasts a weirding storm
Swirled from the center of a cloud that fell
In blackness down toward the snowy earth.
Ruarther heard the dire wolves howling rage
Before the storm and saw a wall of chaos
Inhaling light, normality, and reason.
The bridge between the netherworld and life
Raged worse than any dragon’s roar or flame or claws.

Ruarther did not flinch to see the storm.
He’d lived through frightening storms too many times.
He glanced again at Cragdon’s grimaced face,
Then stood upon the wall again, his face toward
The storm about to swallow up the world.
Why had a man as brave as Cragdon died?
Ruarther, tortured by his history
Of grievous faults, would not run from the storm,
But face it’s fury with a fury of his own.

Before the wall of swirling, ugly clouds,
The rainbow human dragon wheeled around,
A shining dragonfly against the deadly
Immensity the world could not escape.
Ruarther wondered at the grace he’d sought
So long to murder in his spirit-heart.

To listen to this passage, click on Before the End of the World

Note: This is the forty fifth passage of a long narrative poem, which has grown into The Dragon Epic. Originally inspired by John Keats’ long narrative poem, Lamia, it tells a story set in ancient times when dragons and humans were at peace. Click on the numbers below to reach other sections, or go to the Categories box to the right under The Dragon Epic. Click on Dragonflies, Dragons and Her Mother’s Death to go to the beginning and read forward. Go to Confrontation to read the passage before this one. Click on Retreat to read the next passage in the epic.

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Rain

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

When the rarest
rain shower
finally comes to the desert
in early spring,
it softens the rocky soils,

soil that feels
like the ears of horses,
velvet and warm,
ears you want to kiss
or hold,

or the soft lips
of the work horse
who used to search
my deep pockets—
winter pockets–
for the carrot
or apple.

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