Photograph by Mary Wood, our daughter
The ice on the bay is darkening and will soon completely melt. It reminds me of when my daughters would pick milkweed laden with a Monarch butterfly chrysalis. The bright green chrysalis would slowly darken as the butterfly was about to emerge. Much like the bay waters in March.
Filed under Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The trees whisper.
He will not lay us low
with the blade,
or render us invisible
with the axe —
So we will light his way
with birds,
music to titillate
his broken heart.
We will get the white bear
to lay salmon at our feet,
streams overflowing
with the red fish.
He believes
he is kin to us
as he climbs
the rocky cliffs
and looks out
across the valley,
exchanging chemicals
with us
like human beings
exchanging pheromones.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son, whom we never stop remembering
Filed under Art, Photography, Uncategorized
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
To Donald Sharp
By Thomas Davis
A rain of sunshine through the tattered clouds –
And then he stands there speckled by the light.
A man not yet a child, his spirit crowds
It’s way into a pulsing song in flight
Across the years of heartbeats pumping blood,
Light shining in his eyes, his voice more sky
Than earth, his presence like a dancing flood
Of sunflower gold stirred by a breeze’s sigh.
Born in a rain of light, he travels trails
Where thunderclouds are luminous with storm
And even pain, mortality’s travails,
Are metamorphosed to a time-bound form
Of breath exhaling light into a field
Where spirit born of light becomes life’s yield.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
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
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