Tag Archives: poetry

February 15, 2012 · 7:34 am

6. The Old One’s Prophetic Dreams

by Thomas Davis

The Old One flew past layer after layer
In dreams so vivid that they seemed to smell
Of human sweat around a blazing fire
Inside the villager’s great meeting hall.
The hunter she had found out in the woods
Was pacing like a spirit bear whose rage
Had left the spirit world and slipped
Inside the human by the fireplace, hands
And gestures punctuating madness, fear.

“The witch’s child has stirred the dragons up!”
The big man roared. “The time for peace is done!”

The Old One twisted, tossed upon her bed
Of earth-warmed stone. The storm outside was raging
With winds so strong they moaned across the peaks
And slammed down slopes into the valley where
The young girl Wei slept quietly in bed.

She’d riled the hunter up, she thought. Infected
By fear she’d thrown at him with fiery breath,
He’d lost his sense of who he was and snarled
In desperation at his memories.

“Ssruann! Ssruann!” Her daughter’s rumbling voice
Cut through the layers of her dream and forced
Her from the village back into her cave.
She opened up her eyes and saw her daughter’s
Bright azure eyes above her in the dark.
The dream still heavy in her mind, she blinked
Before she spoke, then stretched her golden neck
Into the frigid air, her daughter’s eyes
Intense upon her waking, looking sharp
And piercing at her dissipating sleep.

Mmlynn has gotten larger than I am,
She thought, or else, she smiled inside, I’ve shrunk.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice so loud it echoed
Inside the cavern of the stone walled cave.

Her daughter’s eyes kept staring, making
The Old One feel unnerved by youth’s strong passions.
Her daughter looked away and glanced toward
The tunnel dug between the Old One’s outer lair
And caves dug deep into the mountainside.

“Your roaring woke the dragonlings,” she said,
Then paused… “and others in a dozen lairs.”

“I’ve been asleep,” the Old One said. “I’ve roared?”

“You’ve dreamed?” her daughter asked, dread in her voice.
The Old One looked outside into the storm.
“I’ve heard you for a month,” her daughter said.
“Tonight it’s gotten out of claw and tooth.”
She paused, her sense of dread so strong it filled
The air inside the cave. “Prophetic dreams.
You’re having dreams foretelling tragedy.”
She paused, then added quickly, “Everyone
Inside the mountain knows what’s going on.”

The Old One looked into her daughter’s eyes
And tried to find the words she’d have to say.
Prophetic dreams could stir the dragon spirits,
Unsettle life inside the mountain, force
Change, roaring, breathing fire, into the world.
She slowly got up from her bed and felt
The aches of old age deep inside her bones.

“We need to bring the human girl up here,”
She said. “I’m dreaming of the human girl.”

A tiny ball of flame puffed out of Mmlynn.
Shock stunned into her eyes and azure face.
“She’d die up here!” she said, her voice severe.
“No dragon’s ever let a human climb
Within a mile of any outer cave!
The males would murder her before she drew
A single breath inside a single lair!”

The Old One walked toward the opening
To look into the storm that moaned and raged
Down cliffs and plummeting, long slopes of rock.

“I know,” she said into the moaning wind.
“But change has come, and dragonkind will change,
Or else the village humans will become
Like ravers with a rage too strong to stop.”
She paused, her voice so strong it magnified
The noise the wind made as it swept up snow.
She turned back to her daughter, forcing down
The roaring in her voice. “The girl is strong,
But weak,” she said at last. “I’ve tried to stop
The dreams, but every night they’re more intense.”

Mmlynn kept staring at her mother. Dreams
By dragons who had lived so long, that came
From layers far below their consciousness,
Could never be ignored. Their prophecies
Came from the minds of all the dragons living
Inside the mountain’s winding tunnels, caves.
Her mother, even when she’d been too young
To be a dragon dreamer, had the dreams
No dragon dared dismiss if dragonkind
Could keep their ancient sentience and will.

“We’ll need a conclave then,” she said, her voice
So small it disappeared into the air.

Ssruann looked at the remnants of the dreams
That floated, pale with images, inside her mind.
“They’ll want to kill the child,” she said, her question
Of why she cared posed when the hunter fled
Still in her voice. “When frightened, every life
delivers death to try to stay alive.”

Mmlynn turned back toward her dragonlings.
“They will,” she said. “No matter what you say.”

She left. The Old One turned back to the storm.
How could the child survive? she asked herself.
Alone, a winter worse than any one before,
The village humans building rage against
A human child that they had never seen—

She turned back to her bed. What could she do?
She asked. What magic did the child possess?
What madness plagued her through unwanted dreams?

The storm would end, she thought. It had to end.
And then? The question settled in the cave.

Note: This is the sixth 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 under The Dragon Epic. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 Go to 7 to reach the next section.

The Old One Audio

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February 13, 2012 · 6:14 am

The Way of Bees

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

She did not know
about the way of bees
until the full moon
had woken her up
and moved her through
the quiet house,
halfway lit-up
by silver dust,
to the outside door.

Barefoot, she headed
through the gate
to the western trail
where cool, velvet dust
squeezed through her toes.

She decided to check
the apple blossoms
and was surprised to see
bees, at night, collecting nectar.
Beside the swollen creek,
honey-suckle branches
were laden with bees.

She did not know
about the way of bees
until the moon tapped
on her window,
calling her name.

copyright © 2011, White Ermine Across Her Shoulders

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February 11, 2012 · 8:04 am

Sonnet 36

by Thomas Davis

What does it mean deep down, beneath all feelings,
all thought, the regularity of breath,
to have a son? Blood from your blood, the singing
as steady as your heartbeat, the length and breadth
of who you are as father, husband, man,
the meaning borne from father, mother, son
passed through to son and daughters, all the hands
humanity has known on days with blazing suns.
We ought to celebrate and really know
each moment when our voices weave a song
as powerful as any oratorio
that makes the love we feel forever strong.

I think about my son, his spirit’s gentleness,
his signature of passionate intelligence.

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February 9, 2012 · 6:27 am

The Deer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

You came to the edge of the woods today
to catch my eye.
My dog did not see you, though,
young girl-deer.

You came to tell me “thank you,”
or so it seemed that way,
for digging you out of the mud yesterday.

Flailing, you were caught up to your neck.
My dog and I saw you
throwing your head from side to side, exhausted—
on our walk in the rain-soaked morning.

Two came to dig you out,
and, after resting, you got up
and ran away.

So today you came back with gratitude,
or your face looked that way—
like my long lost daughter.
You came to make me understand
that you were full of thankfulness,
to catch my eye,
or so it seemed that way.

Copyright © 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

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February 8, 2012 · 6:59 am

5. Ruarther Out of the Storm

by Thomas Davis

I

Ruarther stopped inside the meadow, dread
A tingling arc behind his head and neck.
The doe was heavy on his back, but pliable,
A coat whose legs stuck out with black, sharp hooves
Above his thin, hard belly, barrel chest.
He turned to look behind him at the forest.
The clouds had fallen to the earth , were moving
Toward him. As they moved a wall of mists,
That anviled up into the day’s bright sky,
Glazed ice across the ground and turned the world
Dark, floating, hard with cold and fields of ice.
Dismay and disbelief shrilled through his arms
And spread in icy tendrils to his too loud heart.

The wierding! In his mind he saw the bear
Rise up inside the forest as he woke
And heard its roar imbedded in the wall
That slid toward him as he froze in place.
The witch’s spawn! He thought in rage as darkness
Rolled over him and ice encased his body,
Another skin so hard and cold it felt
As if he’d never move his legs again.
The dragon that had brewed his fear in vats
Prepared by witching words and weirding vials!

He forced himself to turn toward the village.
The doe had frozen hard around his shoulders.
What will we do? He asked himself. A moan
Rose from the trees behind him as a fierce,
Sharp wind that stung his ice-encrusted face
Drove snow across the meadow’s sudden white.
His legs felt heavy as he forced himself to move.
He wondered, deep inside, if he could make
The journey to the village that was left.
He’d never faced a weirding storm before.
He forced himself to run, his fear a pounding
In ears so cold they stung with savage pain.

II.

The hunters came out of the angry storm
One at a time, beards caked with ice, hands burning
From bitter cold. Each one, dejected, sat
Inside the village hall and said they’d seen no game.
Their families needed food, but as the storm
Had threatened, all the animals had hid
From searching eyes and deadly arrowheads.
At last they’d all come home, except for one:
Ruarther always brought back game no matter
What weather howled or animals retreated
To lower altitudes or hidden dens.

As Reestor donned his bear-hide cloak to walk
Toward the stone fence at the village edge,
He thought about the times starvation stalked
The mountain folk until their greatest hunter
Came bearing meat enough to keep their bellies
From shrinking during long, cold winter nights.
The hunts had not found game for much too long,
And now the winter when grim scarcity
Would stalk the village like a beast had come.

Still, no one liked the hunter—even though
His generosity was greater than
That shown by any other village man.
His pride was harsh as acid burning deep
Into the flesh, and when he spoke he made
His fellow hunters, even Reestor, flinch.

Ruanne, desirable to all the men,
Kept all of them at bay and let them know
Ruarther was the only man for her,
But even she was challenged when she tried
To soften haughtiness enough to let
Love’s light shine in her eyes and strong, wild heart.

Outside the wind blew blasts of heavy snow
In Reestor’s eyes. He leaned into the wind
And took forever crossing to the fence
A hundred yards from where the village hall
Stood sound and solid in the shrieking storm.
He stood beside the oak wood gates that barred
The dire wolves from the round stone cottages
And tried to stare into the blowing snow.
The storm was three days old and still as fierce
As dragon mothers sheltering their young.
He knew Ruarther’s strength and skill, but still. . .

The big man teased the headman’s blinking eyes.
The snow clouds cleared, then billowed white again,
Allowing, for a moment, one brief glimpse
Of brownness shouldering fresh meat, salvation
Inside a storm that promised days of hunger.
The old man felt triumphant as the wind
Shrieked like a demon from a dragon’s fiery gut.
He shoved the gate while kicking at the snow,
The snow too deep to let the gate swing open.
Ruarther, face around his eyes raw, red,
Turned sideways, slipped inside the gate, and grunted.
He looked exhausted as he let the doe
Fall to the ground, its carcass frozen stiff.

As Reestor grabbed Ruather, keeping him
Upright, the big man’s eyes locked on his eyes,
Eye whites alive and burning in the storm.

“The witch is dead,” Ruarther croaked. “Her child
Is stirring up the dragons, witching them.
We need to organize ourselves for war!”

The volume of the wind began to roar
As if the sky was gathering its force
To tear apart all life that lived on earth.
Ruarther, Reestor stumbled through the wind
And snow and tried to reach stone walls and warmth.

The dragons? Reestor thought. They’d been at peace
With men forever even though the witch
Had lived below them for a dozen years.
No villager need fear a dragon war.
He felt the weight Ruarther put on him.
The man was weak. The strongest man he’d known
Was stumbling as if he was a child.

“The bear,” Ruarther mumbled incoherently.
“I heard the bear warn of the dragon child.”

Relieved, the village hall now looming, Reestor
Felt cold blast through his body, felt a chill
Shriek through his spirit, felt an endless cold
Spread like a blanket over sky and earth.
He reached the hall’s stout door and pounded hard.
His strength was gone. Ruarther squared his shoulders
As light spilled from the Hall into the snow.

Note: This is the fifth installment of a long poem. Inspired by John Keats’ long narrative poem, Lamia, it tells a story that is 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 under The Dragon Epic. 1, 2, 3, 4. Go to 6 to read the next section.

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February 5, 2012 · 8:00 am

The Sickness

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The people in the village
tied their sicknesses
onto the spotted jaguar.
Then men chased him
out of the village with sticks,

but the people
did not chase him far enough—
because in the night
he came back
and took my love.

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February 3, 2012 · 6:50 am

4. Dreams of Fire

by Thomas Davis

Wei sat inside the cottage by the fire
And wove light strands into a radiant web
That glinted firelight back toward the flames.
The web threw light into the darkest corners
And made the cottage seem as if its warmth
Was filled with friendly spirits as the wind
Blew sleet and snow against the walls and roof
And seemed intent on battering its way
Into the small, safe place that Wei called home.

At last she let the strands of light go dark
And got up from the floor and walked to look
Outside into the storm’s cold, deadly fury.
She thought about her mother’s face before
Her sickness took away her strength and left
Her pale and weary in her single bed:
Her pale green eyes had always danced with light,
Her smile so bright it banished little hurts
That little girls could always seem to find;
In storms her eyes would grow intense, alive
To clouds that sailed with lightning, dragging fire
Beneath their rumbling through a winter’s skies.
Wei sighed and shivered. Frost had caked the window
And only left a small round hole to see
The wind ghosts walking just above dark ground,
Their fleeing emblematic of Wei’s life
Now that her mother was inside her grave.

Wei’s loneliness was sharp enough to burn
Into her flesh, her sadness like a mask.
She thought about the moment by the grave
When numbness made her silence all encompassing,
Her heartbeat stilled to nothingness.

She’d thought about the humans in the village,
Considered walking down the mountainside
And telling them she was a lonesome child
And not a fearsome witch birthed by a witch,
But then she’d felt the mountain stir its rock
And touch her spirit with a spirit old
As water splashing over mountain stones.
I won’t need them, she’d thought. They’d chase me off
And treat me like the deer their arrows kill.

But by the window, looking out at winter,
She felt herself begin to shake, not from the cold,
But from the loneliness she’d felt each day
Since she had been alone, her mother gone.
She thought about the dragons in their caves,
The way they lived their lives together, bound
By memories and happenings that flowed
Into their flights above the cottage, sang
Into their daily voices as they linked
The way each dragon was into community.

She dreamed while standing by the windowpane
About a golden dragon looking fiercely
Into her eyes and saying, “Yes, you’ll do.
The elders won’t object to how you’ve grown.”
And then she felt herself spread wings of light,
Made of the light she’d strung into a web
Beside the cottage fire, and lift into the air.
She saw the cottage below her as she flew
Toward the human village in a rage of joy.

The vision faded. She shivered, turned away
From wind that howled at wind ghosts in the storm,
And went back by the fire that needed wood
She’d split if death was not to be a guest
That visited with tendrils exquisite with frost.
She felt the dullness of her hunger burn
Beneath the burning of her loneliness.

“I’ll be a dragon.” In her voice she sounded sure.
She looked at arms too thin as food had dwindled
And rabbits had become aware that she
Was not as skilled at calling them to her
As when her mother did the winter calling.
She wondered if she’d ever feel alive
With happiness the way she’d felt before.
She settled by the fire and watched the flames.

Note: This is the fourth section of a long poem I have been skeptical about publishing in wordpress format, but have been encouraged to do so. The story was inspired by John Keats’ tale in his narrative poem, “Lamia,” although this poem uses blank verse rather than the rhyming couplets Keats used. Click on the numbers to read earlier sections: 1, 2, 3, 5.

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February 1, 2012 · 6:28 am

The Winter Nights Are Best

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The winter nights are best:
Her floors are swept
back and forth
and back again
with heaps of snow.
Her wind howls
like timber wolves
in some cold, inhuman land.

She’s almost thought
to be, in her heart, a beast,

But her snow
drifts too deep;
her wind blows too strong,

and weakness flees
the human heart again.

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January 30, 2012 · 6:30 am

The Black Snake

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

In the center
of our galaxy
the Milky Way,
a great black snake lives
and mesmerizes stars
so they will
get close enough
for her to swallow—
while, at the same time,
she gives birth
to new stars.
They come out of her
and go flying off
into the cosmos
as far as they can go
to escape
her clutches.

Copyright © 2011, White Ermine Across Her Shoulders

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January 29, 2012 · 9:36 am

3. The Coming of the Weirding Times

by Thomas Davis

Ruarther stopped upon a ridge, the sound
Of dragon wings behind him rising up
Into the sky, his breath so short from running
He had to kneel and gasp, too trembling
To see the golden dragon fly away.
He’d been afraid, he thought. His mouth was dry
And stomach clenched against the memory.

He failed to force himself to move for minutes
That crawled like hours as he tried to see
Why he had turned and run when flame had sprouted
Out of the female dragon’s gut into the tree.
He’d always thought that he was strong enough
To face a dragon, look it in its eyes,
And force the beast to fear his human strength.

At last he got up off his knees and looked
At skies and snow clouds massing in the mountains.
He’d been away for weeks, the game so scarce
He hadn’t even used his bow, not once.
The village needed meat. Winds gathered
And soon they’d cover mountains deep in snow,
And then the herds of deer would head downhill
And hunting would become a test of stamina
So difficult that only full-grown men
Could hope to bring home meat enough to feed
The children, women, and the older men.

The dire wolves, black with yellow, shining eyes
Would find the village too, their hunger bright
Inside their growls and nightly moonlit howls.
The harshness of the winter world would batter
The villagers and make them long for spring.

Ruarther stopped his musing, turned toward
The village, started running with a long, sure stride.
Ruanne, the girl who thought he was a fool,
Would laugh to hear he’d run from dragon fire,
Confirming what she thought of him already.
He wondered at the dragon’s curious words,
The plea to save the witching girl, the meaning
Of dragons taking interest in a human’s life.
He couldn’t let Ruanne hear of his fear,
He thought. Her yellow hair and dark green eyes
Ran with him as he jogged past tree trunks massive
Inside the forest’s twilit canopy.

As night grew out of shadows on the ground,
He stopped and built a fire. The winter cold
Walked like a forest beast whose hunger burned.
He took his blankets from his leather bag,
Edged close to where the flames danced merrily
And closed his eyes, sleep letting him forget
The dragon, witch’s girl, his fear, his dread.

Before the sun had risen over mountains
He woke. He smelled a bear. He grabbed his bow.
The world was silent. No bird song, no breeze. . .
And then he saw the bear so huge it seemed
As if it was the spawn of dragons, brown
And shaggy in the darkness, dangerous,
Eyes glowing in the moon’s dim silver light.
Its eyes looked straight into Ruarther’s eyes.
A weirding chill iced deep inside his head.

The great bear stood on hind legs eight feet tall.
It made no sound, but stared and stared at him.

And then, inside his head, a rumbling voice
Said, “Humans should beware of dragon’s minds.”
He touched his ears; he had not heard a sound,
And bears did not have speech like dragons did.

He looked around. Light crept through trees.
He thought he heard the warning of a growl,
But when he looked back at the bear, the bear
Was gone, and birds were singing to the sun.
He sensed the snow clouds not yet in the sky.

The witch’s child! He thought. The dragon, then
The bear! Strange happenings that had a pattern
As if Old Broar had cast his bones and seen
The future through his cloudy, pale blue eyes.
It had to be the witch’s child aligning
The universe against the village peace.

A smallish doe walked through the trunks of trees
Not fifteen yards away. Without a thought
He notched an arrow, let it fly at her.
She startled, leaped, crashed dead into the ground.
He’d hunted for a week, and now he’d found
His prey and felled it with a single pull.
Rejoicing started flooding through his thoughts. . .
But then, he thought he smelled the bear’s rank smell,
Felt fierceness in the coming winter storm.

He’d have to warn the villagers, he thought:
Old Broar, Ruanne, the village leader Reestor. . .
He’d have to run through several long, hard days.
Strange times were on them, weirding times.

Note: This is the third section of a long poem I am skeptical about publishing in wordpress format. The story was inspired by John Keats’ tale in his narrative poem, “Lamia,” although this poem uses blank verse rather than the rhyming couplets Keats used. Click on the numbers to read earlier sections: 1, 2, 4.

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