a photograph by Alazano, Kevin Davis, our son
Creativity
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
to: Standing Feather
When we become
the most fragmented,
the most broken,
or so we think,
we step
onto the track,
the furrow
that is the circle
of the universe.
It is a river
that pulls us along,
connecting us
to something greater
than ourselves,
to the great spiral,
to the circle dance of the honey bee.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
As Power Layers Over Power
A song by Thomas Davis
I thought I’d post a song from a play that I am writing. This is a first draft effort. I have one scene to go to finish the first draft. Called “A Gathering of Ravens”, the play is set in a mythical kingdom called Montrose and has a collection of wizards, witches, and kings. I haven’t written a play since our years in Carlton, Minnesota, so I have been enjoying the process
As power layers over power,
The world feels how the weirding shower
Of fates dance on the precipice
Of change, the whirling genesis
Where human will and human courage
Confront the powers that discourage
The dreams of what humanity
Can be if only sanity
Wraps power, hate, and fear with songs
That heal wounds festering from wrongs.
As power layers over power,
The world feels how the weirding shower,
Derived from flows that weakness stirs
In spirits craving power’s burrs,
Sings songs as dark as raven wings,
As frightening as the hate of kings.
We sing sweet songs of love and peace
As chaos dances, is released.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
Red LikeYoung Girls’ Cheeks
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Rosy-red crab apples lay
on the ground in front of us
as we walked in the chilled air
near a forested lake.
Fifty years ago
the same red crab apples
were picked up
by a college student
as she strung them
on a string around her neck.
She knew this was a beginning
of the path she would follow,
a path centering herself to the earth.
This also was a period of darkness
where a string of blackness
would catch her in a trap.
But there were people
like the shepherd mother
of the small dorm where she stayed
who taught her
there were good and trustworthy people:
apples that lay at our feet,
red like young girls’ cheeks
in the chilled fall air.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
