a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Tag Archives: Davis
Earth
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
If only it would snow,
white covering red;
red now is everywhere
in this world.
If you go up into space
all that is made by man is gray;
gray is everywhere
in this world.
I want to put a ladder
further up
so that what I see
is the red-brown
of the earth,
the green of vegetation,
and the lovely blue of water,
shrouded by a white,
see-through shawl
around her shoulders
where there is no longer gray.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
Liberté, égalité, fraternité
photograph by Kevin Davis, Alazanto, our son
Filed under Art, Photography, Uncategorized
Discovery
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is because
the earth is tilted
this time of year,
the sun brightest at sunrise,
October light exceptional,
that I can see
silver threads strung
across my path
among the oldest trees,
thousands of gleaming strings
made by tree snails or slugs —
trails of lubricant
caught by sunlight
in a mathematical moment;
glistening chains we put
around our necks
to take home with us
to put in our favorite drawer —
the one labeled “DISCOVERIES”—
there in the back of our mind.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Cedar Trunk
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Wrinkled Skin
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This morning
the trunks of cedar trees
felt skin-like,
looking like wrinkled
elephant skin —
elephants cornered
throughout Africa,
poached, killed
for money.
One man spent most
Of his life protecting them.
When he died recently,
the elephants walked
in single-file to his house
where he lay in state,
circling his house and
staying for some time.
Animals and birds know
when people want to
protect them,
show grace and gratitude.
They wait for us to save them,
the animals,
the cedars,
the wrinkled skin.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Liberation
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
An old man leaves
a federal prison,
free at last.
He has spent
most of his life
behind bars
for a crime
he did not commit.
The air is as sweet
as any he has known.
He steps into freedom.
This morning
a white butterfly,
with black accents
I could not identify,
was caught in a spider’s web.
I pulled him from
his bondage.
He was still alive
and eager to fly.
He flew into the forest
rich with oxygen,
a freedom he had thought
would never again be his.
And there in the sundrenched trees
he became giddy
on pulsing, cooling waves of air.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Troubled Waters
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Sisters as Flowers
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I think of one as a rose,
feminine yet voluptuous,
a powerful scent,
delicate like no other,
the first flower you go to
in the garden —
the oldest as a lily,
singular and strong,
standing apart from all the rest,
an example to all her sisters —
and then the white daisy,
clean and fresh
and wholly authentic—
one to have in your corner.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
