by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“I run because it is my culture.”
“My father is not there for me
because he is a drunk.”
“The runners with me
are my family.”
“My culture says that I must greet
the sun by running.”
“I think about my future
when I am running.”
“I think about what my life
is going to be.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The earth dresses in
the cloak of humanity,
but it does not fit.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Tonight, black cricket,
if you sing your golden song,
you can have my room.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son who died on this day from cancer in 2010
Filed under Art, Photography, Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Wilderness embraces us
this wet morning
with pictures of chaos.
Fractals,
repeating patterns
of symmetry
that quiets,
sets our minds free.
These lovely patterns
in trees, rivers, coastlines,
mountains, and seashells
give us designs that are graceful. . .
like the wild dogwood,
a signature tree in the forest,
whose fractal symmetry
is like no other.
The most beautiful grace
I have ever seen
brings rest to our minds —
our souls.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She went to the great black first,
then the bay.
She had carrots
in one of her coat pockets.
“Which pocket?” she asked.
Their soft muzzles always
found the right one,
happy to munch the carrots.
Then one day
the black was gone,
his stall cleaned out,
and shovels put in his place.
“Where’s Dick?” she asked.
“He went to the fox farm because
ladies need fur coats,” he said.
The bay remained for
a number of years,
sleeping in the winter sun
with his head too low to the ground.
Then one day the bay too
was gone,
his great body and his work
folded into the fields
outside his window.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Uncategorized
