Ethel’s art show at the Unitarian Universalist Church gallery in Ephraim, Wisconsin opened yesterday. Here are photos of a few of the 19 pastels on display. The photos, unfortunately, were difficult because of light flowing into the gallery from the windows. Rick Wood helped Ethel install the show, which was deeply appreciated.
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
He was dressed
like a laborer
bending around in the yard
in working clothes.
He whistled tunes
that were classical symphonies.
I thought, how strange
he is dressed —
yet knows these tunes.
He should be dressed
in a beautiful coat like Joseph’s.
I went to the window
looking for him,
still hearing his whistling,
but then realized
I was waking from a dream;
like the Navajo holy woman
chanting under my window
that early morning.
I went to all the windows
to catch a glimpse of her,
but then realized
she was part of my dream.
Who are these people?
I think they are the healers
that repair
the holes in the universe,
the tear,
the rift just outside
my window.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Uncategorized
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She is the sort that hears the song
the hills make after a heavy rain —
a humming sound one hears
first through the finger tips,
then the ears.
She’s the sort that dances with antelope at dusk,
playing in the field until dawn.
She’s the sort that makes the insect song —
not bell, nor click, but a rhythm in-between:
like the sound the silver pieces
sewn on her dress and leggings make,
a sound like wind and bell
as she makes her grand entry
in a circle around the village —
head held high,
her hair flowing behind her,
tasting the song of pure ecstasy
like honey on the tongue.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry, Uncategorized
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
If only it would snow,
white covering red;
red now is everywhere
in this world.
If you go up into space
all that is made by man is gray;
gray is everywhere
in this world.
I want to put a ladder
further up
so that what I see
is the red-brown
of the earth,
the green of vegetation,
and the lovely blue of water,
shrouded by a white,
see-through shawl
around her shoulders
where there is no longer gray.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Nearly every night
Juno wakes me
With eerie sounds,
sounds that are crying,
tormented
from deep dreams.
She came to our gate
eleven years ago, starving,
having recently had puppies.
After feeding her for days,
she never tried to go back
to them,
so I thought they were dead,
or taken from her.
I go to her in the night,
comforting her,
telling her she is now safe,
telling her
humans are both tormentors
and saviors.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is because
the earth is tilted
this time of year,
the sun brightest at sunrise,
October light exceptional,
that I can see
silver threads strung
across my path
among the oldest trees,
thousands of gleaming strings
made by tree snails or slugs —
trails of lubricant
caught by sunlight
in a mathematical moment;
glistening chains we put
around our necks
to take home with us
to put in our favorite drawer —
the one labeled “DISCOVERIES”—
there in the back of our mind.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
1
His art is of cows, goats, and pigs,
but mainly dairy cows, Holsteins,
great portraits of black and white Holsteins
posing with dignity and grace,
one with a large, bulging vein
running the length of the under belly
to its udder,
portraits rich in painterly quality,
showing a wondrous love for these animals.
2
A downed cow,
too sick to get on its feet,
is dragged with chains
to the slaughtering yard.
A man kicks her in the head
on her way past him,
dignity and grace
still in her eyes.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
fourwindowspress 