by Ethel Mortenson Davis
On our walk today
a large flock of Canadian geese
rose up into the air.
Then a single call came
from somewhere deep in the woods,
a haunting sound made
by an injured or sick bird,
calling for help.
Migrating geese leave
their injured and sick behind.
Winter overtakes them
and ends their suffering.
It is like the Kurdish people
we left behind today,
or the Central Americans—
they reached for our hands,
crying out through their pain and suffering,
and we turned our backs on them,
left them for their enemies and winter
to finish them off.
by Thomas Davis
They frack the earth. Drills fly into the soil
And whirl through rock, a stream of chemicals
Shot down into the shale, the oracles
Of business, profit, subjugation, oil
Enraptured by technology, the coil
Inside the engine driving humankind,
The writ of progress, greed, force sealed and signed.
The oilmen say, we need the fracked-up oil.
An elder walks into the winter cold
And kneels beside a frozen lake and lifts
His arms toward dark clouds, his spirit bold
Enough to recognize creation’s gifts.
“The radiance of water, soil, and sky,”
He sang. “Is in a baby’s first-breath cry.”
by Ethel Mortenson Davis after a conversation with Rita Hawes
Bought one of those
genetically modified chickens
(the one with the big breasts)
but she just sat there
in a clump
in the middle
of the yard–
didn’t get up
and peck and
because her skinny
little legs couldn’t
lift her big chest
off the ground.
But that’s okay,
because a few weeks
in those little wire cages,
Big chicken breasts.
Millions of little cages whose
chickens are ripe
My how we love our big breasts!
copyright 2010 I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico