by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The local people say,
don’t walk out in the wilderness
unless you carry a gun,
because of large predators
and wild dogs—
dogs turned loose
in the desert, abused and neglected.
Now in the hundreds of thousands,
they pack up
to find food and survive.
They kill elk and cattle,
and people—
a man in his fifties.
Children abused
And neglected
join gangs in order to survive.
In order to live—
they kill people.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
Grief leaps from cracks and corners, as I walk
or sit beside our window looking out
toward the mountains, like a fierce-eyed hawk
that slashes from the sky and grabs a trout
that flips and struggles as sharp talons snuff
light out of day, the beating from the heart.
Grief seizes life grown wearisome and tough
beyond all hope that might one day jumpstart
time’s stream and let the sunlight filter down
into the shadows, wakening the joys
that often went unnoticed as I walked on ground
made blessed by my wife, girls, precious boy.
The gray miasma leaps from corners, cracks.
I startle as the sun turns dark, then black.
Note: There are two more sonnets in the sequence I have been posting for months now. Most of the sonnets were written while Ethel’s and my son, Kevin Michael Davis, was in the hospital or at home under hospice care. These last sonnets were written shortly after his death a little over a year ago.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
a photograph and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There is a dance
the bee makes
when it has found food.
It dances in the hive
with all the other bees
looking on
until each one
understands the dance
and knows where to fly–
unlike the astronauts
who came around
from the dark side
of the moon
and saw (for the first time)
what the earth looked like,
new and bright
and more beautiful
than we could have imagined–
a blue-green jewel
shrouded in white clouds.
They wanted to tell us
the best thing
about going into space
was the earth itself.
They wanted to do
the dance for us,
but we could not
get the sense of it.
We could not imitate
the dance.
The Dance copyright © I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, 2010.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Poetry
a pastel and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Haida
The Haida left
the Northwest to come
to the Chicago Field Museum
to bring home their ancestors;
They were gone
for over one-hundred years,
stolen from a village
and put into drawers.
The Haida made button blankets
and round-cornered cedar boxes
painted in their rich
black and red symbols
in which they would place
their family remains
and bring them peace.
The Haida asked
the Chicago Field Museum
if they would also return
their family totems
and masks and other artifacts.
The Museum said,
“We’ll think about it.”
The Haida copyright © I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, 2010.
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
Ruanne sat by the small triangle window,
The morning light a comfort past the storm.
She pumped the small wood loom and fed the strands
Of hair from mountain sheep into the shuttle,
Her hands in constant rhythm as she wove
Each row of heavy cloth into a rug
That metamorphosed howling winds and clouds.
She tried to concentrate upon the wisdom
Of Selen who, upon her loom, had woven
The weaving of a man and woman’s flesh
So human love could populate the world,
But all her efforts skittered like the beads
Of bear grease on a blazing, black iron pan.
Thoughts turned to images: Ruarther caught
By madness, storming from her life to wilderness,
Snow fields a glittering in morning light.
A knocking broke into her reverie.
She deftly tied the weaving so the row
Of gray and blue would stay in place for later,
Got up, and greeted Reestor at the door.
The old man looked pale, weary in the light,
His deep eyes ringed below white eyebrows sweeping
Toward white hair that covered half his forehead.
She smiled and stood aside to let him stomp
Into the cottage, cold around him biting
Into the room warm from the morning fire.
“You’re early for your rounds,” she said, her sadness
Surprising her inside her too soft voice.
Inside his heavy coat he looked more like
A bear than just a man, she thought. A wildness clung
To all the men who hunted for the game
That let the village live through winter storms.
She wondered if she ought to leave her cottage
And make the journey to the nearest town.
Ruarther was the one who’d kept her here.
But now? She smiled as Reestor growled as if
He truly was a bear. He shrugged his coat
Off shoulders strengthened by the years he’d spent
Outdoors before they’d made him village leader.
He walked toward the fire, put out his hands,
Then turned to look into her dark green eyes.
“I saw my father and my brother die,” he said.
“I didn’t live here then. I moved here later–
When Mother couldn’t stand the thought of Breenan.
Two dragons came upon the town all fire.
You seldom saw more than a single dragon then.
My father took his great long bow and hit
The older dragon, Pphhitin, in his one good eye.
The younger, Mmirimann, went wild
His breath so hot it fired the town’s wood roofs;
His claws sent dozens to their early graves.
“The great green brute not only burned our house,
But Mmirimann flung down upon my father,
The dragon killer, scorching flesh with fire.
He left the body black as smoky quartz,
So burned light seemed translucent through
The skull left bare without a shred of flesh.
The smell still visits me at night sometimes.
My brother tried to drive a metal spear
In Mmirimann, but didn’t have the strength.
The dragon swatted him away and speared
A broken rib into his young man’s heart.”
Ruanne stood silent, waiting. Reeston looked
At memories he’d long ago suppressed.
He suddenly looked up into her eyes.
“I don’t like kings,” he said. “The rich men live
Rich lives while those of us who find survival
In places where the rich would never live
Develop bonds much stronger than privation,
But Clayton’s Peace has given us good lives.
No human, or a dragon’s, died from war
For nearly all the years I’ve lived. But now…”
Ruanne still did not speak, but waited, spirit
So taut it seemed as if she ought to scream.
“We see more dragons in the sky each year,”
He said at last. “They have evolved, and we
Are still the humans that we’ve always been.
Ruarther’s craziness will stir their hearts
And bring about rage we have never faced.”
Ruanne let out the breath she’d held too long.
She shook her head. “I know,” she said. “But what?”
She paused. “The witch’s daughter shouldn’t die.
The children in the village shouldn’t face
The rage of dragon fire and raking claws.”
Determined, Reestor looked at her. “You know
The Dragon Songs,” he said. “You’ve heard them sung
Inside your head. You have to let them know
Ruarther’s left our village, lost his mind…”
“I’ve never said I hear the songs,” Ruanne said softly.
“I see it in your eyes, the way you shine inside,”
The old man said. “I’ve lived too long a life.
I hardly sleep, but still, you’re like the witch’s child.”
His words struck like a blow. She was a witch?
“Ruarther’s left me all alone,” Ruanne said.
“I’ve loved him since we both were children… babes…”
“He’s gone, Ruanne. You’ve got to let him go.”
“I’ve never spoken to a dragon, never…
They’ll never answer me… they’ll never hear…”
“You’ve got to try. The children don’t deserve
To die because Ruarther caused a war
That humans cannot hope to ever win.”
Ruanne escaped from Reestor’s burning eyes
And looked at where she’d sat upon the loom.
She shook her head. What could she really do?
She said a silent prayer to sagacious Selen.
She’d always forced the dragon’s songs away.
She was her mother’s child, not witch’s sister.
She’d known the mountain witch, but never once
Felt like they had a bond of flesh or blood…
She looked at Reestor, panic in her eyes.
She talked to dragons, villagers would drive
Her into wilderness, hate’s refugee.
The village children couldn’t die, not if
She had abilities that might protect them.
The old man looked past eyes into her heart.
Audio of Weaving and Dragon Song
Note: This is the twelfth installment of a long poem. 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 to reach other sections, or go to the Categories box to the right under The Dragon Epic. Click on 1 to go to the beginning and read forward. Go to 11 to read the section before this one. Click1 13 to go forward to the next section.
Filed under Poetry, The Dragon Epic, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The dominant horse
acted queer:
Ran around in a circle
in his pasture,
finally resting near
a black clump
on the ground.
The black clump moved
every once in awhile.
It was the black dog
that ran wild
along our fence.
He had been shot
and had gotten
as far as the horses,
trying to get home.
What happened next
took my breath away.
The horse stayed
near the dog,
nuzzling with it’s soft lips,
going over and over it’s body
for a long period of time
until there was no movement.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photo essay by Sonja Bingen
The winds of early spring sing windy songs
and young boy’s thoughts begin to long
for wings that lift his feet off ground to sky
and let his spirit start to fly.
He starts upon a hill, runs, lets legs stretch
as gentle winds begin to catch
the kite into its dance of buffeting
as paper, string, and tail go soaring
into a place where boys have always run
into the joy of springtime’s sun.
Filed under Art, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Tree
Everything depends
on the apricot tree in bloom
across my neighbors fence—
A tree of butterflies!
Desert
The cornflowers are gaining
and soon will be in bloom.
Where are the rain-showers
of spring?
Iris
Cold nights
catch us off guard.
Will the iris
lose its life again?
Progress
Progress
is the budding branch,
the Painted Ladies
warming their wings
on my garden wall.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 