a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

My new novel, The Prophecy of the Wolf, has been released by All Things That Matter Press! It’s available now at Otherworlds Books and More and Novel Bay in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin and Yardstick Books in Algoma, Wisconsin. Readers can also order it from almost any online venue.
I spent three years working on a historical novel that is set in the mid to late 1600s on the Door Peninsula and Washington Island as famous French priests and fur traders started to seriously impact the traditional lives of Native Americans. The Neshnabek, or Potawatomi Tribe, are at the heart of the story as Ogima tells about how he, as a young man, became embroiled in the affairs of Quapaw, a powerful waubeno that has had a vision given to him by a storyteller wolf. Quapaw, because of his shaman visions, starts to try to keep the Neshnabek from falling prey to the fur trade, the beguilement of French trade, and power of Christian conversion. The novel explores the largest themes possible as event follows event, eventually reaching a crescendo that has become a distant legend even in our time. In the process the lifestyle and beauty of Neshnabek civilization and culture becomes a beautiful backdrop to the action.
Filed under Published Books, Thomas Davis
For World Poetry Day, from my novel, Prophecy of the Wolf, close to being released
Thomas Davis
The woman wrapped the child against the cold And walked into the forest where the glow Of moonlight pooled a deeply shadowed gold Beneath the trees on softly shining snow. She gathered wood, the baby on her back, And built a fire, its warmth a dancing light Upon a great flat rock protruding black Into the lake’s infinity of white. Then, in the dark, sat, death-still, beside The flames, the baby in her arms, the smear Of stars above their heads a radiant tide Of silence singing to the ebbing year. At last, her voice a permutation slipped Into the night, she started chanting words Born deep in spirit as the blackened crypt Of waters stirred beneath lake ice, and birds, As black as mourning shrouds, began to fly, The forest stirring like the waters, wind A whisper as the baby voiced a tiny cry And shadowy trees began to sway and bend. The woman got up on her feet, her voice As silver as the moon, and sang as deer Began to bound onto the ice: “Rejoice,” The woman sang, and as she sang the fear Felt during hours of pain-filled, labored birth Dissolved into the biting wind and light That danced with deer upon the lake, the earth And living integrated with the night.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
On World Poetry Day
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Maple sugar moon, golden-eyed like maple sap boiling over wood fires. Finally, you tell us of the coming spring— sweetness that brings satisfaction, one more year to get things right.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Forever is not a word In our universe, nothing in it stays the same. One day our earth will become pieces in the cosmic pond. We are not forever. Your movement in the early morning through the quiet rooms will one day drift away. Forever is not a word in our universe. One day we too will have to part.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I look for places where deer could hide in dense thickets or in wetlands with tall reeds-- too hard for hunters to enter. I remember you telling me that you would see deer lying down in the swamps, water up to their faces, hiding from approaching hunters. You, who went out each day during hunting season to hunt deer, then came back at night to tell us you saw nothing that day— walking your land but never raising the gun to your chest.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Sometimes I want to go to you but remember that I have put you in a special room far from here, a room, nonetheless, with an open door, so that I can enter anytime. So, I can see your smile when you were running with Shiva, the golden lab, through autumn leaves in a special forest long ago. So, I can walk through that door anytime.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry