I did a book presentation and signing at Novel Bay Booksellers in Sturgeon Bay today from 2 to 4 p.m. A crowd showed up and a bunch of that novel and other books that I have written sold. Ethel came and took a couple of photographs. Thanks go to John Maggitti and Liz Welter for sponsoring a great event!
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
for April Chischilly
Little bird,
with wound on her chest,
comes to my water
each day.
Other birds
push her back,
but she is steadfast and stays.
She reminds me of you.
The first sunlight
that warms my body
in the early spring
after a long, cold winter
reminds me of you.
This morning, as the red, glowing mushroom
shone out from the dark forest floor,
an orange- red like no other,
it, too,
reminds me of you.
Filed under Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Our president shakes
the hand of the Brazilian leader,
congratulating him on
destroying the Amazon Rain Forest —
faster now than we can imagine.
The Hope of Trees
In the heavy rain
this morning
I waited for you,
but you did not come.
No walkers came at all;
so the dog and I
headed into the deep forest
in pouring rain.
As we walked deeper
into the trees
the rain lessened
until it nearly stopped,
except for a few large drops
that pinged down
from the canopy above.
See, you should have come.
You missed an unforgettable silence
and a white mist
that rose from the bottom
of the forest floor.
It looked so eerie!
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Ethel Mortenson Davis’s drawing is the perfect artwork for the cover of the epic:
Ethel has gotten news that one of her poems, “Migration”, had been selected for an anthology that will be published by Water’s Edge Press. When the anthology is published it will be available from amazon.com or the publisher at https://www.waters-edge-press.com.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Published Books
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I didn’t know
you were becoming:
not a destination,
not an idea,
but rather like
a bud on the branch,
a flower in the making—
like being carried on the backs of horses,
but being the horses too.
I didn’t know you were becoming.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
