Dance of an Iris
a photograph by Sonja Bingen
Iris in the Desert
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Note: The time of Iris blooms is nearly done. In fertile southern Wisconsin the Iris dance in sunlight and the intensity of spring. In the high desert Irises, especially a profusion of Irises, is a miracle.
Filed under Art, Photography
by Thomas Davis
the journey of the elephants
One day in early June
Shook trees and shook the peaceful ground
And even shook the moon!
Then, with a movement huge and slow,
The herd began to run,
And thunder pealed amidst the hills
So loud it shook the sun!
Note: This was the first children’s poem I wrote. We were going to college in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, and Sonja loved to ride on my back and call me her elephant herd. Mary had just been born and was in her crib while her older sister and I played in our small living room, and so this small poem was born.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
A photograph taken in Paris, France by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Filed under Art, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Our son would not last
another night.
We stopped to have coffee
at a corner restaurant.
The woman in the booth
next to us said,
“Lemar, I told you
to sit down and shut up,
or I’ll slap you
up the side of your head.”
The little boy sat down
and then stood up,
not knowing what to do.
Finally he sat down.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
Uncover my eyes that I may look
And see the mountains covered with shadow,
The tambourine of stars in the sky,
The trumpet of the new moon!
Uncover my eyes that I may look
And see the rain cloud tent over the earth,
The rain slant like small grey spears into the earth,
The small rivers flowing away from flinty rock!
Uncover my eyes that I may look
And see her dancing to the melodious sound of the harp,
Her feet moving like the wind-blown blossoms of cherry trees,
Her hands clapping in time to the movement of stars!
Note: This is a love poem I wrote to Ethel when we were both young. These and the children’s poems I am posting were written in the 1960s and 1970s. Reading these, I find I have lost the young poet’s lyricism. But I still love Ethel. A lifetime love is still possible.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Taken June 15, 2008
Filed under Art, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Once, when the creek
had swelled its banks in spring,
and I had run to meet its new boundaries
to build a raft again
that could carry me down the Little Sandy
toward lands unknown,
I was sidetracked by a patch
of blue and yellow violets—
too many to let go unnoticed,
found among the wet and shady places—
and I forgot about the countries unseen.
And in fist-fulls I came running,
sharing them with you—
and you received them well,
arranging them in glass jars,
teaching me to love
the spring beauties and things:
The funny-faced Holstein calves
and the timid chickadees
who came in December
to snatch your winter’s crumbs.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Photo Essay by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Leg Pollen Sack on a Honey Bee
Great Purple Hairstreak
Eggs of a Long-Tailed New Mexican Black Bird
Filed under Art, Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
an epic poem by Thomas Davis
His stupefaction, as he sat in snow
Beside the boulder as his pain seared skin,
Kept him from seeing Cragdon packing up
To struggle back the way they’d come across
The treachery of fields of blinding snow.
“I’m leaving now,” the young man said, his face
A mask of pain where dragon’s fire had burned
His arm and side. “I’m done. I’m going home.”
Ruarther, from his seat, looked up and stared
Into the young man’s bleary-looking eyes.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he said. “We’re injured bad.
Until we’ve got our hurts controlled, the village
Is just a dream you’ll never reach alive.”
The pre-dawn cold was hinting at the light
Now filtering along the eastern ridges.
“I knew I’d have to go alone,” the young man said.
“You’re crazy. Why I followed you out here
Is something that I’ll never understand.”
“The witch’s child has stirred the dragons up,”
Ruarther growled. “You’re suffering from burns
Inflicted by a dragon hurtling
From skies without a reason made by us.”
“Perhaps it read our minds and gave us warning
That murdering a child is not the way
To keep the human, dragon peace,” he said.
“I’ll send the hunters out with fresh supplies.
You’ll have to keep alive until you’re found.”
Ruarther looked inside the raging self
That seemed to boil with pain and anger branded
So deep it was the substance of his life.
He growled again, but did not say a word.
As Cragdon looked at him, the man he’d seen
As better than a man could ever be,
His hero since he’d been a child who’d hung
Upon the village’s stone wall to watch
For hunters coming from the woods, their game
On tripods made of fresh-cut branches roped
Around their hips, or slung on massive shoulders,
And wondered why he’d failed to see the truth.
The grim, dark man who leaned against the boulder
Was not a village man, but bound
To raving spirit beasts whose sentience
Danced chaos born from rage into the world.
He shook his head and looked toward the slopes
That angled down toward the only place
He really cared about inside the world.
“I’m going now,” he said. The snow shined brightly
As sunrise danced with sky fire as it crept
Across the treacherous, white miles of crust.
He wondered if he had the strength to make
It to his wife and child, the life he loved.
He briefly wondered where the dragon was.
It too was facing weeks of burning pain.
He shook his head, then moved out from the ridge.
Ruarther failed to hear, or see, when Cragdon
Began his journey home. He fought to block
His pain from consciousness and tried to focus
Upon the task of finding peace again
By murdering the witch’s child and letting dragons
Go back to living in their caves away
From hunters and their villages and homes.
He tried to see the child’s unnatural eyes
And wondered how a witch with minor skills
Could birth a witch so powerful her strings
Turned dragons into puppets of her will.
He felt the golden dragon’s whirling eyes
Confront him, heard the power in her voice,
But when he looked around to see her body,
The wilderness and sky were empty, vast
Beyond imagination, fevers wrapped
Around him like a fire inside his flesh.
He cupped snow in his hands and spread its cold
Upon his burns and coughed deep in his lungs.
He wondered if he’d be alive when dawn
Lit up the sky again and wheeled another day.
But then he knew: He’d kill the witch’s child.
He’d give Ruanne the peace his love deserved.
He’d let the dragons settle back into their lives.
He forced himself onto his feet and put
More wood to burn upon the dying fire.
Click to hear an audio of this section: Separation in the Wilderness
Note: This is the sixteenth installment of a long narrative poem. 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 1 to go to the beginning and read forward. Go to 15 to read the installment before this one. Click on 17 to go to the next installment.
Filed under Poetry, The Dragon Epic, Thomas Davis
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