Book Launch at Faire Isle Bookstore for In the Unsettled Homeland of Dreams

Screen Shot 2019-09-14 at 9.10.24 PMThe book launch with Deb Wayman at Faire Isle Bookstore for In the Unsettled Homeland of Dreams was spectacular.  The novel is about a community of slaves escaping from the boot heel of Missouri near Mingo Swamp to West Harbor on Washington Island off the Door Peninsula in Wisconsin before the Civil War.  Faire Isle is a small store, so it was so crowded that my daughter Mary and son in law Rick stood outside to listen to the reading I gave.  The engagement of the audience, many of whom had families that had lived on the island for generations, was exciting.  There were people who had already read the novel at the launch and they, like the reviewers so far, were highly complimentary, and even excited about the novel.  The launch was a wonderful experience.  I pretty sold out of all the books I had originally ordered and will have to order more today.

 

 

 

 

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The Gatherer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

He is not just a gatherer
of ripened berries and roots,
plants of every kind,
but he is a gatherer of days
and lights and secret places
where treasures abound.

He’s not just a gatherer
of summer strawberries,
blueberries, and blackcaps,
the northern red cranberries,
but a gatherer of open spaces,
a quiet still hill,
and a meeting at last
of his wild woman.

She is there in the blanket
of golden chanterelles
among the deep pockets
of the forest
where he finally ravishes her
with kisses to her mouth
and blowing hair.

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In the Unsettled Homeland of Dreams Released!

My new novel, In the Unsettled Homeland of Dreams, has just been put on the market by All Things That Matter Press.  It’s available at Independent Bookstores as well as on amazon, https://www.amazon.com/dp/1732723788/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=In+the+Unsettled+Homeland+of+Dreams&qid=1566256736&s=books&sr=1-1.

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Little Bird

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

for April Chischilly

Little bird,
with wound on her chest,
comes to my water
each day.

Other birds
push her back,
but she is steadfast and stays.
She reminds me of you.

The first sunlight
that warms my body
in the early spring
after a long, cold winter
reminds me of you.

This morning, as the red, glowing mushroom
shone out from the dark forest floor,
an orange- red like no other,
it, too,
reminds me of you.

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Beneath the Red Cliffs

by Thomas Davis

for April Chischilly

Beneath red cliffs as first morning light reflects fire
into an impossibly blue sky,
a Navajo woman, aging, calm, long black hair and black eyes
a part of high desert juniper and pinion trees,
walks as beauty stirs backwards and forward in time.

The medicine man in his Hogan’s darkness
sees a woman he doesn’t know through an ancient crystal
handed from medicine man to medicine man
through thousands and thousands of years.
He feels heart-strength, spirit-strength,
sees her facing what is beyond the light’s weaving,
her beauty-song echoing and echoing
into the song of women, the spirit of women
who have forever given birth
and lived through the everyday turmoil of everyday
without flinching, trying to find the courage that is who she is.

Courage weaves a blanket from light out of the woman’s heart
into the texture of red stone.
It rises from the moment when sons were born,
patience was worn away as dreams and hopes were deferred,
as self honesty penetrated weaving consciousness
that tries to protect itself in the interest of shuttling
strength and goodness into the sinews and spirits of children.
Speaking softly, singing beauty, the Navajo woman walks
beneath cliff fire ignited by first light
beneath an impossibly blue sky.

The Navajo woman walks beneath red cliffs
in an impossible blue sky
as first light sets sandstone walls on fire.

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Will Bingen’s Newly Crafted Guitar

Our grandson, Will Bingen, just finished making his own guitar, and here it is:

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He is a brilliant guitarist and singer who has opened for bands like Kansas with his group.

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Lightning Bugs

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

We, as children,
celebrated the arrival of fireflies,
calling them lightning bugs.

We danced with them
in the meadows,
collected them in glass jars.

Some of us
took their thoraces,
rubbing them on the backs
of our T-shirts,
letters glowing in the dark.

We didn’t know their light
was sacred–
that this gift brightened

our backwoods swamp,
lighthouses called to mind
in our walled-off childhood.

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Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry