Tag Archives: poetry

Memories

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I will take the key
that unlocks you
and peer inside
to see yards and yards
of colorful fabric
on assorted bolts,
some material so thin
air and light comes through,
some so soft and thick
it feels like gray wool
from the long haired mountain sheep.

There I find a memory
from a northern forest
when snow filled up the floor,
and wind blew so strong
we looked for shelter
and found a circle of white cedar
whose branches hung down like loving arms.
Inside the circle
snowflakes were suspended in mid-air
as if in a crystalline hour glass.

And then there was the memory
of the sweetest summer night
in the high desert
when cool breezes played with us
to the tune of dancing hummingbirds
chatting to each other
as the fullest moon came up over the hills:

Two braided ribbons I’ll place around my neck
and wear forever.

© 2010 I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

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Sonnet 38, Kevin Michael Davis, February 16, 1982 – July 23, 2010

by Thomas Davis

He died enveloped in his mother’s arms.
The two of them alone, she felt so tired
from lack of sleep, she thought about the charm
of closing eyes and drifting off, transpired
into a dream where waiting, dread, and love
were not commingled with each ragged breath
he took. But then his breathing changed. She shoved
herself out of her chair and smelled his death.
She put her arms around him as his eyes
flew open, glancing one last time at light,
and then his breathing stopped. The cloudy skies
leaked rain. Eyes stared without the gift of sight.

Her daughter said, she brought him to the earth,
her love the bridge between his death and birth.

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All We Have Is Sky

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

In the end
all we have is sky.

He walked in winter
across the mountain
many times,
searching for the plant
dried by winter’s cold
that looks like all the others.

After many days
the medicine man
found the herb and planned
two ceremonies
for the whiteman,
a man who extended his arm
to The People, and they, The People,
extended their arms.

They took him
to a sacred place
high in the mountain,
performing the secret ceremony
where sky
is greater than the earth.

The white man walked
in two worlds.

“You will be okay,”
they said.

In the end all we have is sky.

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8. Shock and the Weirding of Boundaries

by Thomas Davis

Ssruann’s long neck jerked up into the air
And twisted to the cave’s night opening.
Outside the storm still raged and howled with winds.
She was awake, prophetic dreams had fled.
The human girl was watching as her mother
Used unseen lines between the waking world
And universes where the shadows swarmed,
In patterns sibilant with singing winds
That dragons, humans, spirit bears, and others
Who walked could not access with eyes or dreams,
To guide her daughter’s hands into the ways
Of power she had never known while breathing.
The daughter’s hands spewed webs of light.
A dance of heat ran through the webs and burned
Through cold and snow as if they’d never been,
Exposing ground beneath the piles of snow.

The Old One’s golden eyes expanded, whirled
While power flowed into the human girl.
It was a dragon’s power, power drawn
From blood more ancient than the blood of dragons
That lived inside community inside
The caves dug deep into the mountain’s heart.

Ssruann’s two hearts were beating with a force
That seemed to echo through the caves and tunnels
Where dragons waited out the storm so they
Could climb on ledges, launch into the air
To hunt for mountain goats and sheep and deer
Now hunkered down, protected from the storm.

Where did the power now inside the girl
Orginate? What did it mean? What force
Had mother’s love sent from the songs of death
Unleashed into the world of dragons, humans,
The seasons marking, marching, passing time?

A long, low wail lunged from the unseen peaks
Above the cave and rolled with fearsome winds
So filled with shards of ice it seemed as if
The mountain’s face would sheer away and leave
A grinning skull of gaping mountain bone
Into the valley where the human girl
Turned back toward the fire that threw its warmth
Into the cottage’s deep darkness, air
Alive with possibilities not known before.

Appalled, her pounding blood a double beat
That sang the history the dragon race
Had lived inside the shining web of time,
The Old One stared into the stormy darkness.
The human girl was linked to her, she thought.
Linked somehow deep inside her dragon blood.
What sorcery is this? She thought. She’d known
The mother, but had never thought too much
About the woman living in the valley
Below the dragon’s mountains and its caves.

But now? Her blood was boiling contradictions,
A moving tapestry of fear, hope, rage, delight,
A stream that made her feel sick from the strength
That surged and ebbed inside her pounding blood.

There were no walls between the universes
That never touched except in tiny whorls
That knitted all that was together, bound
By actuality, the mind of God.
The weirding of the storm and darkness raged
Inside the webs of light the young girl wove.
Ssruann, the Old One, stared and stared at where
Her cave led out into the storm and dark,
Her long neck rigid with a dragon’s fear.

Audio version of the poem: Shock and the Weirding of Boundaries

Note: This is the eighth 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, 7 to read the installment before this one. Click on 9 to read the next section.

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Walk

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

March
and new snow
last night.

Black dog
on white,
two miles
into the woods,
and we see
timber wolf tracks.

Then sister wolf
flashes past us,
a great roaring ball
of white and gray
whose size
dwarfs you,
dog.

But we are
not afraid.
Just in awe.

To see a glimpse
of you
is like a gift,
like an eagle
taking off
into the air,
and we are lifted up.

I see a surprise
smile on your face.

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People Speaking, Mixing Up Words, Glossing Over Details

by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son

below the hasty gridlock of contradictions
and among minced words on tall podiums,
a man preaches about compassion,
his eyes limpid.

an annishinabe woman once told me about relationships:
her people, skidding across moments, carried by wisdom,
the blood of her people seeping through these moments,
droplets ingrained with the soil.

but does the soil judge us as a merciless god?
my eyes follow a parched river basin.
the sun retreats to greet those who have been forgotten.

resting on the horizon, the flow of the river can still be felt.
bloods join, racing through the veins of sleepy sandstone cliffs.
their faces emerge in the crisp warmth of sunset, eyes limpid.

compassion and inequality, conflated, are left to fend on barren streets.
the woman taught me that no matter our origins,
drops of our blood seek out clemency.

rivers flow.
soils take root.
the earth does not judge,

but among our minced words progress paves over the basins,
and our blood is sealed away.

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Old Woman

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

i the old woman,
with breath on my hand,
have come before–
down this hill with stoney sides–

have come
with
the spears of grass
against my legs–

and then the sea
and its green smells
after the rain–
until this garden.

i have come
thinking
the flowers to be richer
in the coming spring,
reaching out for their smell
with only my finger tips,
sitting awhile,
and waiting.

i the old woman
have passed
the sea
many times,
not looking
at the whale
of the waves,
thinking i have
time,

tomorrow.

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The Story

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

This morning
my black dog
found a story
in the grasses.
She sat down,
lingered and mulled
over it,
relishing every detail
and every character.

I hope that people
will linger and mull
over my poems
someday.
I could envision
them being copied
and recopied
on exquisite parchment
by cloistered monks…

But if not,
the joy
is in the playing
of the stringed instrument
and riding its vibrations
out and across
the face of the moon,
lingering and mulling
over its details.

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Sonnet 37

To Sonja, Mary, and Kevin

by Thomas Davis

The genius in our children blesses us,
their energy in teaching, art, and poetry
transforming who we are, their lives a trust
born from the hymn of life, the sea
of possibilities, and trails that free
the spirit, leading to a forest made of light
that livens thoughts into a garden fantasy
of flowers blooming selves for our delight
at breathing who we are, the fahrenheit
of humans seeking out the truth of dreams.
Our children are our lives, a vein so bright
inside our spirits that their independence gleams
a pathway as we walk past all the streams

that act as barriers against the life we’d lead
if living stopped producing endless needs.

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Rabbit Hole

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I keep a rabbit hole
on my kitchen window sill
so I can jump into it
once in a while:

When people become inhuman,
details from the bloody wars…

or when he came into the room;
his white jacket spoke and said
the tests did not look good.

“The Navajo want me
to have two healing ceremonies
with Mr. Redhouse,”
you said.

Underground,
in the cool stillness,
I listen to the raging river
sift through the earth
one drop at a time.

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