Tag Archives: boy


For Brand Windmiller

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 You take a boy,
ten or eleven,
and put him
into the wilderness,

let him do
the hard work
of boating
before the destructive
influences permeate him,

let the wilderness
finish his training.

Let him eat berries and nuts.
And let him hear the sound of
the red-eyed loon
as she carries her young
on her back.

If once is not enough,
bring him again.
Let the wilderness
do her work.

Early in the morning,
push the bow
into the darkness
as the white fog
sits on top the water.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

Drawing of a Boy

by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son

Kevin's Drawing of a Boy


Filed under Art

Boy and Horse

a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter

Boy and Horse

Joey is our grandson. He is autistic, but he is excited about horses. His mother has been taking him to ride them since he was very young, and visiting horses is one of many joys in his life. Ethel and I love him deeply.


Filed under Art, Photography

The Fisherman

a children’s poem by Thomas Davis

“I’m going fishing,” said the king.
“I’m going early in the morning.
I’m going with my counselors.
We’re all to go a fishing.

“I’ve hired a boy to bait the hook.
I’ve hired a lad to hold the pole.
I’ve paid a boy to slip the fish
From off the hook into the creel.

“I’m going fishing,” said the king.
“I’m going early in the morning.
I’m going with my counselors.
We’re all to go a fishing.”


Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis

Sonnets 27 and 28

by Thomas Davis


His photograph was of a running boy,
the sunset red and orange, the spray of waves
afire with light, the boy suspended, brave
from being young, his crazy leap of joy
upon the lake-soaked dock a song to buoy
the spirit, calm a troubled heartbeat, stave
off nightmares, swear to dare to misbehave
in ways that shows that life’s a game, a toy.

He sat outside his cabin in the sun
and shyly let his mother see his art.
She looked amazed, as if the photo stunned
her sense of who her son was in his heart.

He listened to her praise, but looked chagrined,
as if her lavish praise was not for him.


Mosquitoes swarmed in visible gray clouds.
Inside the dusty parking lot he laughed
to see my face as I exclaimed out loud,
“Where is the spray? They’re making me half daft!”

“Ignore them, or your final epitaph
will read, here lies my Dad, whose mind unhinged
because mosquitoes worked their bloody craft
upon his face and made him wail and cringe.
Mosquitoes buzzed him to a lunatic’s mad fringe!
Forget they’re there,” he said. “The welps on welps
will scar your skin and let you go and binge
on campfire food or find a scout to help.”

He paused, “mosquitoes, once ignored,” he said.
“Sting skin, but let you keep your mind and head.”

Note: Sonnet 28 is a description of an experience at a boy scout camp near Oshkosh, Wisconsin.


Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis