an abstract drawing by William Bingen, our grandson
Cherry Orchard
A Miltonian Caudet Sonnet
by Thomas Davis
They crawled out from their canvas tent and stared
At stumps still littered through the opening
Their two man saw had cut into the spring-
Deep twilight made by woods so thick they dared
An axe to fell a wilderness that flared
Across so many miles no bird could wing
Its way to planted orchards blossoming
Into the dream the couple, logging, shared.
So tired she barely kept her head upright,
The woman started up the morning fire.
She sighed to see the stumps that made the field
Look strange inside the early morning light,
An emptiness surrounded by the choir
Of birds in trees where she in silence kneeled.
“The canopy is peeled
Away enough to let us plant the trees,”
He said. “Their blossoms will attract the bees.”
She looked and tried to tease
The cherry trees he saw into her mind,
But all she saw were stumps, work’s endless grind.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
First Spring Green
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Better Place
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Perhaps,
if we didn’t want
to go to a better place—
they said when he died
he went to a better place—
we would want to take care
of the earth
and other species.
Perhaps,
if we thought
of the earth
as our better place,
we would revere it–
the forest and animals
would be our cathedral.
This morning
the cornered possum
lay down and played dead
until the children and dog left.
Then she got up and ran away,
returning to her cherished life,
her better place.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
At Last, Spring 2014–even though it snowed Monday
a photograph by Sonja Bingen
Filed under Art, Photography
Living in the Age of Information
by Thomas Davis
I dance in the Age of Information.
Like a crowd of people
Information floods over me,
Voices speaking, feet walking,
Demands crescending into emptiness
That wires constrictions around
Blue veined, throbbing heart.
You’re not too deep, you’re not too deep.
The voices sing in cacophony of meaning/
Meaninglessness.
You’re not up to the Age that is.
I walk into a pool of quiet.
An old man, dark eyes pooling
With sunfire of stars,
Flaring with emptiness between stars,
His skin the color of Nebraska soils,
Stares at me,
Then smiles.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Cosmic Fish
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Unearthly
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Unearthly stillness,
except for the sound of water
running in rivulets
down the face of cliffs
to the Great lake.
That is earthly.
Sandhill cranes
landing
as if on skirts of air,
suspended in mid-air,
slowly coming down
to start their spring dance:
Unearthly.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 