by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Let me tell you
that the old gods
will not help us.
When we pray
by the wayside
they will not
listen to our tears.
For they are deaf,
stone deaf
like the ancient boulders
we walked between
this morning—
cold and unconcerned—
among the sweetness
of blooming honeysuckle.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Before we reached the bank two twelve year olds
were on the water in the good canoe.
Both Brand and I looked at our sons, their coup
apparent as they grinned at us, both bold
enough to know that, ten feet out, they controlled
the moment even though the wind still blew
and rain was falling hard, the clouds a stew
of swirling turbulence and cold.
Okay, Brand said. Inside the inlet, calm
prevailed, but as we went into the lake
the waves were higher than our heads. The qualms
I’d had at seeing youngsters make their break
to manhood with a crazymad aplomb
unmanned me–as they left me in their wake.
Note: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday Brand Windmiller, Jesse Windmiller, Brand’s grandson Braxton, my grandson Will Bingen, and I spent a few days at an unimproved campsite north of Minoqua Wisconsin. I am reprinting this sonnet written while our son, Kevin, was dying of cancer, in memory of that trip as I relived a glorious part of my life that Brand and Jesse were so instrumental in helping to make happen. I will be forever grateful for that special time with my son. A couple of photos from the Minoqua trip are below:
Mist in the Early Morning
In the Land of the Cranes
Filed under Art, Photography, Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It looks to me as though
you’ve been around, perhaps,
since time began—
and I have lived at least
as long.
Oh? Only that much time?
I’m sure there was no life
before for you or me.
How could I know your face
so well?
As well as some old rock
I’ve seen hang, clinging
to a mountain wall,
and I know what wave of brightness,
or of darkness, to expect there
waiting for me.
You step and make some rounded move.
I know beforehand which way to go.
How could I know? Unless. . .
You’ve been around, perhaps,
since time began.
I know I’ve lived at least as long.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
He talked about the mirror of the lake,
reflected trees and clouds and sky, the still
so absolute, the waters dark, opaque,
no wind, no breath, no birds, no human will
to mar the moment made for memory
entangled in the webs of days and hours
that jumble, jangle, pounce, drone, laugh, and flee
across and through the fields of flowers
surrounding us and all the love we miss
but know inside our livers, gall stones, hearts
as hours blend into hours, and all our bliss
becomes a mirror that is but a part
of floating on a lake of trees and sky.
As rain begins to fall, a loon begins to cry.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
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