Article Appearing in Nine Wisconsin Newspapers

https://www.greenbaypressgazette.com/story/news/2021/01/28/sturgeon-bay-author-pens-book-poems-tribal-college-movement/4259575001/

This above article is about my newest book, Meditation on Ceremonies of Beginnings. John Looker wrote a great review of the book too:

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What Hope Is

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I’ll tell you
 what hope is.
 It’s not going
 to the grocery store
 and getting yelled at 
 for bringing your
 screaming son along
 and then next week
 doing it again.
  
 It is breaking through
 the thick cloak that surrounds him
 and finding a small increment
 of communication,
 reaching down into
 the cylinder of autism
 and pulling out
 shafts of light. 

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A Quiet Night

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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An Artist that Uses the Color Blue

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 The first pictures
 of the earth from space
 showed a blue and white jewel
 shining out of the blackness.
  
 It was like seeing
 patches of blue in the sky
 after a difficult storm,
 blue patches
 that gave us hope,
  
 or seeing rare blue flowers
 on an ancient forest floor,
 or the sparse blue iris —
 a surprise
 in the dry desert.
  
 Blue is the color of promise,
 the color of hope. 

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October Sumac

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Christmas Day: Sledding on the Mountain

by Thomas Davis

 We drove Grand Mesa’s unpaved, snow-packed roads
 Around its hairpin curves until the banks
 Of drifts were high enough to stop the plows.
 Grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins slammed
 Car doors and shouted so their voices echoed off
 The slopes and cliffs that soared into the sky.
 Then “food enough to feed an army,” sleds,
 Toboggans came from car trunks as the day’s
 Festivity spilled out into the winter cold.
 My Dad and Uncle dug into the snow
 To make a fire with driftwood, branches found 
 Down in the canyon as we’d driven by 
 The stream that gurgled songs beneath the ice.
  
 Then, looking down the road toward a bank
 That lurched uphill before a hairpin curve,
 The oldest of my cousins laughed and jumped
 Onto her sled, her head downhill, and slid
 Like lightning flashed into a coal-black sky:
 The slope so steep she flew, the hill of white
 A half mile down as solid as a wall,
 The road beneath her hard and slick as ice. 
  
 Her mother, Aunt Viola, laughed to see 
 Her fly toward the snowbank wall as I
 Could hardly breathe to see the tragedy
 Unfolding as the sunlight glared into my eyes.
 My eyes began to hurt.  She had to crash
 Or slam into the wall of snow so hard
 She wouldn’t be my cousin anymore.
  
 But, as she hurtled down toward her doom,
 She dragged her legs behind the racing sled
 And turned the blades before she hit the hill,
 And everybody who had come to watch
 Began to yell when she rolled off the sled,
 Popped to her feet and shot her arm into the air.
  
 When, after other cousins dared the hill,
 I hesitated, swallowing to see 
 The downhill slope, my younger brother jumped
 Ahead of me and joined into the fun.
 I stood above my sled and felt my heart
 Quail, staring down toward the distant bank
 That still seemed solid as a concrete wall.
  
 I froze and couldn’t move until my Dad, 
 Behind me, got me on my sled and pushed
 Me off as cold and snow and light became
 A blur of flying, flying down the road.
 I flared my legs behind the hurtling sled
 And tried to slow down as I turned the blades,
 The running sound beneath my stomach, snow
 A cloud of ice as I rolled off the sled
 And came up, sunk in snow up to my hips,
 And shouted with my arm up in the air. 

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Christmas

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 We dropped her off
 after the Christmas program.
 Snow was on the ground.
 The night was cold.
  
 We waited, with
 our car running,
 for her to get inside.
  
 But,
 instead of going
 in the front door,
 she scurried up
 a wooden ladder
 that was placed outside
 to an upstairs bedroom.
  
 Faster than a blink of an eye
 she went,
 faster than we ran up                
 our own stairs at home.
   

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Major Anthology Released by Four Windows Press

Publisher:                   Four Windows Press, 231 N Hudson Ave., Sturgeon Bay, WI  54235

Distributor:                Ingram

Number of pages:      370

Price:                          20.95 Retail

Available:                   Through bookstores and online venues worldwide, including https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0999007777?pf_rd_r=QNSVAP9MMMBZFHENZZEP&pf_rd_p=9d9090dd-8b99-4ac3-b4a9-90a1db2ef53b or https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/no-more-can-fit-into-the-evening-thomas-davis/1138335652?ean=9780999007778

Web site:                    www.fourwindowspress1.com

Four Windows Press has released a major anthology of English-speaking poets, No More Can Fit Into the Evening, A Diversity of Voices.  The volume contains a healthy sampling of work from 39 poets from the United States, Great Britain, Canada, New Zealand, and the Netherlands. 

In the “Introduction” to the volume, the Editors, Thomas Davis and Standing Feather, both poets, say that “an early decision was made to invite poets either they knew about” from their years participating in multiple poetic communities “to submit ‘the ten best poems they had ever written.’” From the hundreds of poems submitted over 250 poems were included in the final publication.

Among the notable poets in the volume include Terence Winch, winner of the American Book and other awards; John Looker, an important British poet; Kimberly Blaeser, an Anishinabe poet with an international reputation who is a former State of Wisconsin Poet Laureate; Michael Kriesel, former President of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, and James Janko, winner of the AWP Novel of the Year and other awards.

According to Davis and Feather, what they are hoping “as they bring this project to press is that readers might find themselves on a mesa top where grandmother junipers spread their branches out beneath a full moon, remembering poems that stuck in their spirit after this volume has been read. We are hoping they might have that experience in Door County, Wisconsin where Lake Michigan is tossing wild, white capped waves at the dark dolomite escarpment that runs through Door Peninsula, or maybe in the timeless moment when they are communing with Taliesin, the ancient Celtic bard, in a time before time as he chants beauty and the world’s beauty into the deep starlight of a Celtic night.”

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Warning in a Dream

by Thomas Davis

I woke with his face still in my head, 
 a handsome young man who looked something like 
     the oil drilling roustabout
 who had lived next to my parent’s house when I was a kid
 rough around the edges with startling blue eyes.
 When he spoke, though, his voice 
     was like the classical music 
 on vinyl records I bought as a teenager 
     when I wasn’t listening to Simon and Garfunkel
 or a country and western star my parents really liked.
  
 “He won’t be like most people expect,” 
     he’d said in the dream.
 “He’ll come out of a tower as opulent,
 and filled with human hubris, as the Tower of Babel,
 shining even when no sun is in the sky,
 and when he speaks, great throngs will gather
 even though pestilence is raging,
 and their shouting and adulation will stir winds 
     spreading disease
 and fan it into the most remote parts of the land.
  
 “He won’t drive around in a beat up, old pickup 
     like many of his followers,
 but will sail in a huge, black limousine fancier than 
     most people’s houses,
 and he’ll use grievance and insult to stir masses 
     that march to Sunday church
 where they worship a humble man, who championed 
     the poor and downtrodden
 and said fat cats had as much chance 
     getting into heaven
 as a rich man had of getting a camel 
     through a needle’s eye.
  
 “And as pestilence spreads and poverty grows 
     out of pestilence,
 dissension and intolerance will enter into people’s spirits,
 and chaos will churn into an earth
 beset by destructive storms, floods, droughts, 
 and great forests burning, spawning tornadoes of flames,
 disasters creating wailing and despair 
     even as the ocean rises
 and voices speaking prophetic warnings 
     can barely be heard above endless tumult.
  
 “O, he won’t be dressed in red or have horns 
     or a pointed tail.
 He’ll wear expensive suits and act like a common man
 with a whirlwind voice singing resentment and anger
 and the exquisite joys and promise of human greed.”
  
 As I woke up the man, looking nothing like an angel, smiled,
 and I felt disoriented,
 wondering if I was waking up, or was trapped, somehow,
 in a continuing dream’s fog. 

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The Racing Clouds of Winter

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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