Photograph by Kevin Michael Davis (Alazanto)
Thinking of Kevin today
Tag Archives: Davis
Forget-Me-Nots
Spring Garden and a Poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Circle
So fragile the circle
of the earth.
Clouds swirl upon her
in endless feathers.
All life surrenders to her.
She even brings you
back to me.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, poems, Poetry
The Omen
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Woman of the Night
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Heaven
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Wolf moon with yellow-green eyes, slipping between trees, slipping from heaven. Timber wolf with yellow-green eyes, slipping between trees, slipping between exploding bullets- heaven slipping between our fingers.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
What Hope Is
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ll tell you what hope is. It’s not going to the grocery store and getting yelled at for bringing your screaming son along and then next week doing it again. It is breaking through the thick cloak that surrounds him and finding a small increment of communication, reaching down into the cylinder of autism and pulling out shafts of light.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
A Quiet Night
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Christmas
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We dropped her off after the Christmas program. Snow was on the ground. The night was cold. We waited, with our car running, for her to get inside. But, instead of going in the front door, she scurried up a wooden ladder that was placed outside to an upstairs bedroom. Faster than a blink of an eye she went, faster than we ran up our own stairs at home.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
The Racing Clouds of Winter
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Separation
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At birth, the farmer separated the calf from its mother. He wiped away the amniotic fluid with a gunny sack before putting him in a separate pen. Black children born to enslaved parents were taken from their weeping mothers and moved hundreds of miles away. Native children were snatched from anxious parents and moved to some miserable life. A Central American baby Is ripped from its mother’s arms. Both baby and mother’s spirits are broken. The farmer’s wife protested, “keep the calf with its mother. Do you need every ounce of milk?” “This is the way we do things,” replied the farmer.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
