Tag Archives: Davis

Unusual Landscape

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Unusual Landscape

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Mammals

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

They tried to tell us
you didn’t have souls—
but I knew better.

Your eyes showed it.
Your sense of humor
spoke it.

The way you took care
of your young
screamed it.

They tried to tell us
you didn’t have souls,
but I knew better.

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Print

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Winter, with bellowing cheeks,
blew and spat ice and snow
across the fields and streams,
across the woods and sides of lakes,
leaving a jagged and spiked print—

Like the Australian Aborigine
who puffed out his cheeks
and spat minerals
across his hand
in a cave on a wall,
leaving his print for humanity.

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Poetry

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I will call you dignity.
You are my mother.
You elevate our character.
And I will call you generosity;
you are my father.
You give us a largeness
that frees us from small meanness.

As for you, humanity,
I will call you lost.
Remember when you said,
“What good is poetry?”
“I cannot shape it into a vessel
and drink water out of it.”
“I cannot form it into a purse
and hold my money in it.”

Now, my lost one,
you have fallen into a hole.
You are on your hands and knees,
calling in the darkness
for your mother and father,
calling for poetry to be written.

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Should Poets Only Sing of Love and Light?

a sonnet by Thomas Davis

What responsibility do poets
assume once they have started writing verse?
Walking through the universe inchoate
has been rejected when their words immerse
them in the streams of dreams, emotions, thoughts
taking shape upon an empty page
and reaching out to other spirits caught
in living’s fears, hopes, love, joys, dread, and rage.

Should poets only sing of love and light?
Images that burn the retina like a flash
of lightning streaking through a sky’s black night?
Or is there reason for their lifetime’s cache
of words to speak of justice, truth, destruction,
the possibility of life’s extinction?

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Running Free

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

IMG_0495

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The Room

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The morning walk
was soaking wet and cold,
water flooding down
the sides of hills.

I wonder if we
will end in water?
Sweeping floods from
an inlet sea
changing the course
of our earth.

Then at the top
of the hill in the forest,
maples in a glorious, gold coat
invited us in.

We opened her door
and stepped into
a fire-lit room,
warming our feet
and hands,
sitting awhile,
until the rain stopped.

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