a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
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
Signs of Coming Spring: Open Water
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
The Raven’s Croak
by Thomas Davis
A Spenserian Sonnet
Hunched down beside a woodpile, ebony,
In shadows from the cedars overhead,
The raven blinked black eyes, its dishabille
Of feathers rustling, stirring up a dread
So dark it seemed as if it called up from the dead
White wisps of spirits buried in the snow.
The raven hopped on top the woodpile, head
Cocked, moving like a dancer in a show,
A shadows’ shadow pantomiming woe.
Dawn’s darkness deepened as the raven leaped
Into the sky and hovered as the glow
Of blood-light saturated earth and seeped
Into the raven’s eyes, it’s dance undone
Until its beak croaked out the blazing sun.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Open Water
a photograph of Lake Michigan by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Visitation
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
They were both
hanging by threads,
trying to hold together,
exhausted,
talking to people:
Lost yet another child–
But those threads
will widen,
grow strong
when they decide to live
again,
for the living–
like the herd of deer at dusk
we saw
when we drove
back across the white frozen fields
in a clearing,
on the side of a steep hill,
clinging to threads
in a trampled field
surrounded by deep winter snows.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 