by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I keep looking
for the breathing holes
beneath this thick sea ice,
a place where
I can propel
up towards the light,
grasping for a breath of air
that smells like earth
and soil and green things.
I keep looking
for that rare space
because I cannot hold
my breath much longer.
There. Over there
I see some light
through honey-colored ice.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Thomas Davis
from a new play that I am writing:
Reality dips, swirls, a dance,
a pirouette, a song, a trance,
and as the mist of being drifts
a chord is struck, and what is shifts,
and fate becomes a puzzle box
secured by puzzles that are locks—
And so reality becomes
a whisper, shadow that benumbs
the heart and changes what will be
into a storm-tossed, dicey sea.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
photographs by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Blue Mesa Reflection
Cliff Near Ouray
Outside the Cabin Where We Stayed
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The young father
bound
his newborn daughter
across his chest
and then slipped on his skis.
This was a cold February
in the land of lakes and trees
with dancing green lights.
Here he connected,
just as his ancestors
before him connected,
to the starry night,
just as his daughter
will someday bind
her infant
across her heart,
presenting a new life
under the milky-green
foam of stars,
under the great tail
of the Milky Way Galaxy
above her shoulders.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
The edge where sanity and fear collide
Whirls passions that are uncontrollable
Into events that spark events that tide
Across the barriers of shores and scull
Destruction, pestilence, a flood of woe
Fermented in assumptions drawn from trials
That litter through all human lives and flow
Like water over hopes, beliefs, denials,
And on the edge, in ferment’s shifting shape,
Decisions ratchet back and forth; dreams lure
The spirit as dire consequences scrape
Against the future suddenly obscure
Enough to paralyze the strength from hands
That long to civilize the hinterlands.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
