Summer Clouds

a photograph by Sonja Bingen

Clouds

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White Blossoms on a Branch

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

When all human
intervention has harmed us,
when all familia
have spent the fruits,
then the Great Spirit
gives to us our opening
from the darkness,

from the “going down
into the pit of our own agony,”

a candle,
a birth, a rite
into a new life.

Then we are assured—
like the mother tiger
who reassures her young
that they belong
to a family,
that they are important
in this world.

This is what it’s like—
White blossoms on a branch.

Note:  I owe the quotation and inspiration for this poem to Herron, Elizabeth.  2010.  Poetry for the Ear of God.

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Field of Wildflowers

Wildflower Field

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July 29, 2014 · 8:53 am

14

by Thomas Davis

On Friday nights I’d work all day, then walk
home from the office where two teenaged girls
were streaming past their mother with their talk
about this boy, this girl, their endless whirl
of friend, near-friend relationships that bloomed
and changed like clothing changed from day to day.

The minute that I touched the door excitement spumed
as I gulped down a meal before Green Bay—
and then we drove for forty country miles
to where two girls could dance and laugh to songs
and show that small town girls had mastered styles
that big town girls would envy all night long.

I sat inside a dinghy Burger King
and read while daughters spread their teen club wings.

Note: This sonnet was published earlier on fourwindowspress.

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Kevin Michael Davis, In Memorium

a photograph by Kevin Michael Davis, Alazanto

Sinking Chair June 15, 2008

The Design Teacher

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

She taught him
to look at the dragonfly—
its color, design,
and to look at why their wings
moved the way they did.

They searched near
the small pond
and found the black and whites,
the emerald greens,
the slim turquoise and black damsels,
the orange and blues.
All had whirling lace wings
above their heads.

One day they saw
a golden dragonfly,
or so they thought–

so they came to find
the new dragonfly
in the late afternoon light
near the small pond
in a universe

that slipped through
a hole in the basket
never to be found
or picked up again.

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Dragonfly, Butterfly, and Bee

photographs by Sonja Bingen

Dragonfly, Butterfly, and Bee

Butterfly1

Bee1

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The Rhyming of Love

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 good 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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