a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son who died on this day from cancer in 2010
Fractals
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Wilderness embraces us
this wet morning
with pictures of chaos.
Fractals,
repeating patterns
of symmetry
that quiets,
sets our minds free.
These lovely patterns
in trees, rivers, coastlines,
mountains, and seashells
give us designs that are graceful. . .
like the wild dogwood,
a signature tree in the forest,
whose fractal symmetry
is like no other.
The most beautiful grace
I have ever seen
brings rest to our minds —
our souls.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Wind
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Trees
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The trees have always
extended their hands to us,
making deep, cool chambers of cedar,
birch and maple,
where enlightenment is possible.
But we, in turn,
have responded
with a sharp slap
to the side of their face.
The women of Kenya
started a green revolution
across their land:
Women planting trees
in hope of stopping
the encroaching desert.
Trees that created a moist climate,
pulling water to the parched lips of Kenya.
When our great, great, grandchildren
ask us what we have done
to save the trees on our planet,
will we be the generation of enlightenment,
or one with empty hands?
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems
Mourning Dove
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
A Force Inside the Dream of God
by Thomas Davis
Their stomachs ached, they felt ice cold, their eyes
Sank back into their sockets. Still, worn out,
They kept on moving, moving. When the skies
Were dark enough, they got up, brushed the flies,
Mosquitos off, shoved fear and gnawing doubt
Into their bellies’ emptiness, and ran, their route
Through hills and fields, past roads, an exercise
In dreams that live on while the body dies.
But as they moved, the Preacher was a force
Inside the dream of God, a man possessed.
He would not fade. His tongue, without remorse,
Whipped legs too tired to move to movement, stressed
Them all until a blessed miracle
Made life and dreams again seem possible.
Note: I have been posting two of these sonnets at a time. Since I am in the rewriting mode of the novel at the moment, going backward unfortunately, I am afraid I’ll run out of postings for the series before I get to a place where I can keep up the sequence. This is the fifth sonnet I’ve posted from the series. I am working on a novel with a sonnet at the beginning of each chapter. The sonnets themselves are a mixture of forms. This particular sonnet is a Spenserian sonnet.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
How Hard
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We talked about children,
their schooling,
their boyfriends.
How they are becoming
serious about their relationships.
We talked about children
becoming people.
How hard it is.
We talked about
how hard creating
a new piece of art is.
How much energy
the making of art takes —
an extraordinary piece of art.
How hard that is:
Like the yellow orchid
in the forest this morning
among the blue waters.
How hard the earth struggled
to bring about that flower:
Like my ancestors
that were sailors,
sailing to other lands —
among the blue waters —
how hard.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
fourwindowspress 