Loon

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

loon 001

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In Search of Poetry

by Thomas Davis

Eyes scudded dark, a roiling rage of storm,
The poet stood upon gray rock, the roar
Of boiling waves the cruciform
Of time, the slates of history a lore
Long lost, but still inside the chanting names
That sang a weaving with the waves.

The poet waves his arms. His presence claims
The past. He reaches past the earth of graves
And strains to bring the fire of poetry
From campfires blazing in forgotten nights
Beside the ferment of a Celtic sea
Onto a wild Wisconsin shore, old rites
Engendering a music mad with winds
That spills through words, a storm that never ends.

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Main Falls at Box Canyon

photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son

Main Falls at Box Canyon November 18, 2007

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Player

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

When I awake
I will not go to the theater,
play parts, do different characters,
but will be who I am.

I will never go back
to that again,
but will go where
there is wilderness and wildlife,
running water, and laps of waves—

See snorting deer.
I am my raw self;
I have no rifle,
and my bent toward you
is harmony.

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Thanksgiving After the Snowstorm

a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter 1911737_10204982640543890_7763630645911042647_n

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Letter to an American Poet

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I have waited for the prodigal son to arrive,
looking across the line of hills each day,
hoping to see his cherub-like face again—
but they say he is still in a distant land,
throwing away his inheritance,
living a debauched life.

For he has no real needs, they say.
Not like the Russians
Pasternak, Ginsburg, Yevtushenko,
Solzhenitsyn,
men of needs and wants
who cherish their inheritance
and are called sons.

I am waiting for you to come back to life again,
waiting to take the fattened young bull
out of his pen to celebrate your return.

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A Last Burst of Fall Color

a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis 012

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