by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
A Day
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is a day
when the earth
turns just right,
when fish swim
close to the top
of the Great Lake
to feed on insects or plants,
when black-winged pelicans
dive in and out to fish,
and fishermen gather
in clumps, throwing
out their lines.
It is a day
before the storm,
humid and cloudy,
when the two of you
think of ways to
come together,
as part
of a turning of the universe,
a love that blows
a sweetness over us—
something unexpected.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Lake Michigan as the Sun Goes Down
a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter
Filed under Art, Photography
A Mouse
a children’s poem by Thomas Davis
There was a little mouse that I knew
Who was singing to the big blue sky.
“Say little mouse,” I yelled at him there.
“What do you see? A blue sky pie?”
“No,” said the mouse as he sang his song.
“I only see a cloud and the blue,blue air,
But the cloud is as white as the winter snow,
And a sky so blue is rare.”
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Threatening Storm
a photograph by Sonja Bingen in Southern Wisconsin as Severe Storms Threatened the Midwest
Filed under Art, Photography
Winds
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The desert spring
does not come
in warm, dark thunderstorms,
but in relentless winds
that carry the precious nitrogen
to thirsty pines–
like the cosmic winds
that once brought
seed to our earth
a long time ago,
starting a chain
of endless life.
Endless winds
that blow everything
that is not bound or attached,
uncaging last year’s seeds
for the strange new birds
that have come for spring nesting.
Winds that loosen
the cords and strings
that hold us,
freeing us so we are ready
to accept the holy seed.
We place it in Her darkness
there, together on hands and knees.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
50. Having Become Human
The final passage of The Dragon Epic by Thomas Davis
The morning sun was shining on the cliffs.
The dragonflies were swarming on the pond.
The surface of the pond seemed like it had
An ever-moving veil upon its face
As tiny multi-colored bodies whirred,
Their wings invisible as bodies’ darted
A dance too intricate to recognize.
Ruarther came out of the woods, two hares
Limp in his hands, a light inside his eyes.
Beside the shed Ruanne stopped feeding chickens
That pecked around her feet and fluttered wings
And looked toward Ruarther with a smile.
“We’ll need the hares!” she called out. “Reestor’s sure
To get here near to dusk and supper time.”
Ruarther’s right arm lifted up a hare.
“I’ll get them ready for the pot,” he said
And walked toward the cottage’s oak door.
Above them, using wings to brake her speed,
Ssruanne flew past the cottage, neck outstretched,
And landed heavily upon the ground
Beside the pond and fleeing dragonflies.
Ruanne flipped up her apron, scattering
The seed into the air, as chickens squawked
And flapped their wings, excited by the food,
And walked toward the golden dragon’s shining.
Ruarther altered course and walked to join
Ruanne as warmly whirling dragon eyes
Looked at the two of them approvingly.
Behind them, from the cottage, Wei ran out
The door and shouted as she ran toward
The three of them, excitement in her voice.
“Ssruanne!” she called. “You’re here! At last you’re here!”
Ruarther dropped his hares upon the ground
As Wei ran up between them, smiling wildly,
And took their hands and skipped toward the dragon,
Her joy impelling them toward the pond.
“A human child needs human care,” Ssruanne
Declared approvingly. She reached out, touched
Her nose to Wei’s small hand, and rumbled joy
Deep down inside her chest, her dragon sense
Of life a wave that rippled out into the day.
Ruarther did not say a word, but reached out, touched
His daughter’s arm, smiled, hugged Ruanne to him,
And felt how lucky he had been to live
Into this moment when he was a human man.
To listen to this passage, click on
Note: This is the fiftieth, and last, passage of a long narrative poem, which has grown into The Dragon Epic. Originally inspired by John Keats’ long narrative poem, Lamia, it tells a story set in ancient times when dragons and humans were at peace. Click on the numbers below to reach other sections, or go to the Categories box to the right under The Dragon Epic. Click on Dragonflies, Dragons and Her Mother’s Death to go to the beginning and read forward. Go to The Long Song Done to read the passage before this one.
Filed under Poetry, The Dragon Epic, Thomas Davis
Near Phillip Augustus Wall, Paris
a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Filed under Art, Photography
Wolves
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The wolf has been reintroduced
throughout Europe.
In the Northern regions
a woman from the Scandinavian countries
said, ”We have a right to shoot an animal
that kills our sheep and cattle.”
In the Southern Regions
of Italy, Spain, and Romania,
an old woman of Romania
said, “We don’t care if the wolf
takes a sheep once in a while,
because we like to see them—
they are part of our culture.”
The wounded wolf
crawls behind a waterfall
as a man takes aim.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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