a photograph by Sonja Bingen
Portrait of Ethel Mortenson Davis
drawing by Paul Pletka
Paul Pletka is now one of the nation’s best known artists. When Paul came over to our small trailer for supper while we were newlyweds, long before he was famous, he drew this charcoal portrait of Ethel. He had not changed his name to Paul Pletka yet, but was Bill Johnson, one of Tom’s childhood friends. That was 44 years ago now.
Filed under Art
Whatever Happened to the Laundry Lady?
by Thomas Davis
a children’s poem written when Sonja and Mary were young
After the stars were all hung out,
Some wet and some half dry,
Rain dripped down from heaven’s black
And cleaned the blue into the sky.
Then the laundry woman left
And let the stars grow dry and cold,
Shining, flapping in the sky,
Becoming stars instead of clothes.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
The Asking
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The undiscovered land
of the high desert
takes our faces
in her hands
and asks,
“What kind of people
are we?”
“What kind of people
do we want to become?”
She has a way
of changing us
as we walk past
the rocky, dark soils
with giant cedars,
the singular mountain,
white-capped,
and the coyote
moving in his spring dance.
This undiscovered land
takes our faces
in both her hands….
and asks….
and asks….
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Thunder
a love poem by Thomas Davis to Ethel
The thunder is silence.
It came upon the morning
With clouds more enormous
Than mountains
(Mountains etched against
The dome of sky)—
And now it is silence.
First it rumbled, clouds black,
Anger on quick gusts of wind.
Then it roared, cluttering day
With grumbling songs
And skies of darkened gray.
Now the thunder is silence.
The noonday light is blackness.
We walked into the field…
The daisies were trembling.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Clouds at Sunset
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Marginal
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
On the rim of the canyon
you came to me
and with piñon winds
kissed my ears.
You came
in last night’s snowfall
as sheets of white
dropped from the sky
on red rock valleys
And then again
as you pushed the clouds away
this morning, dazzling us
with red, white, green, and blue colors.
Now, with feather sounds,
you come,
bringing juices and sustenance
in the piñon seeds—
enough to get us
through the night.
Perhaps the world will live
one more day
while piñon wood warms us,
breaking our fevers in the night
so we can dream
good dreams
before dawn.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 