Photographs of Rock Island by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Category Archives: Photography
February 16, 1982 – July 23, 2010
Arches of Scoria
Arches of scoria,
bridging eye to eye,
we lean back, falling gently.
Stones like hands
catch our curiosities
at the cusp of a cool wind.
Delicate branches reach down:
fingers wrapped around supports of light
peering through a passage of silence.
Our eyes close momentarily,
and the passage inundates with another kind of light.
several minutes late – as usual –
leads us to bustling boardwalks and ocean breezes.
Thronged by movement,
silence shies away,
its wisdom stowed between new verbs.
We must pay heed.
For in silence,
the arches collapse into a volcanic flow
and collide into the ocean’s embrace.
Cool winds carry us, as equals, to stark realities.
Frailty inspires us.
Photograph by Kevin Michael Davis (Alazanto)
Thinking of Kevin today
Spring Garden and a Poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
So fragile the circle
of the earth.
Clouds swirl upon her
in endless feathers.
All life surrenders to her.
She even brings you
back to me.
All Things That Matter Press have released the cover for my new novel, Apples for the Wild Stallion. This book was written after my daughter, Sonja Bingen, one day remarked to me, while she was starting to read the first Harry Potter book to Joey, our non-verbal autistic grandson, I have really searched for a book that had a character Joey can relate to in his life, but have had trouble finding any. This cover was done by my ATTMP editor, Deb Harris, who based it on a photograph Sonja did on Joey and a brown mare who resembles Brownie, one of the horses, the one Joey rides, in the novel. The novel is set in the Zuni Mountains of New Mexico on Wrangler Road where Ethel, when lived in Continental Divide, did her daily walk with our dogs. The wild, white stallion of the novel’s title changes Joey’s life, but he returns the favor to the stallion in the story.
By Alazanto, our son, Kevin Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
we cannot go
to another planet,
to another earth
in another solar system.
We are too late for that,
too far away.
Instead, we must
sit down, you and I,
and look into each other’s eyes,
our arms embracing,
before we can save
any of us.
a photograph by Kevin Michael Davis (Alazanto)
Two photographs by Sonja Bingen
In Memoriam Kevin Michael Davis
Doors at Chaco Canyon photograph by Kevin Davis (2/16/1982 – 7/21/2010)
“The Framing” a poem by Richard Brenneman
This is the anniversary of our son’s death in Poughkeepsie, New York from cancer ten years ago. This is always a sad day for Ethel, I, and our daughters, Sonja Bingen and Mary Wood, every year. This blog was started in honor of Kevin, who was a wonderful web designer, photographer, artist, and poet. This year we are publishing one of Kevin’s most iconic photographs, a doorway found at the Chaco Canyon ruins in New Mexico, and Richard Brenneman’s wonderful poem about the photograph, remembering someone who was deeply, deeply loved.
by Richard Brenneman
Ekaphrastic poem celebrating the Kevin Davis photograph, “Doors at Chaco Canyon”
I Picture this -- seen through the lens of a camera; eye sighting perfectly this line of sight, image remaining after. The photographer has entered into this, his picture. A framing frames the ancient remains, frame within frame like stone ghosts from the living to the not living. II During the day, the doors, like sideways viewed Chinese boxes, point the way to the sky, or a blank wall where the lords of death (or alternatively, the lords of life) are lodged beyond, whether in kiva, hogan, teepee, pyramid -- the mountain of gods. III At night invisible, you can barely see the framed gates. Above, the moonlight, a few stars shine bright: Polaris, Sirius, Aldebaran. The gods of old-time have come for you -- you who framed this image. Time into framing, gate, window, doorway -- starlight seeps out light from unseen life in sunrise or twilight, you who sighted this in your view finder. IV If we look at this image askew, we can almost see you as shadow, invisible among the dust motes, the whirling dervishes slipping through the frame of time, the ancient gateways to join the lords of life, of death to ascend timeless, bodiless to the stars, to become framed as infinite starshine.