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
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is the darkest
of all days so far
this year.
I’m sure it will
never be light again,
never with bright sunshine
and hidden breezes.
But tomorrow
will show up,
and the light
will gain over the dark,
and you will be running
down spring’s path,
clinging to my arm.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
to: Standing Feather
When we become
the most fragmented,
the most broken,
or so we think,
we step
onto the track,
the furrow
that is the circle
of the universe.
It is a river
that pulls us along,
connecting us
to something greater
than ourselves,
to the great spiral,
to the circle dance of the honey bee.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Blackberry moon,
moon of the blackberry month,
snags at me,
rips at my skin.
Star-gazers come
and get caught
in her sweet clutches,
but are overtaken
by a storm
with brittle, scratchy fingers
of lightning
that blackens out the moon.
Now we must wait
for the harvest moon
as she ripens
on top of the waters.
Note: This is Ethel’s contribution to the moon-night organized by Francha Barnard and Write-On Door County.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a villanelle by Thomas Davis
“Beside the cottonwood,” I start to say.
She looks at me. Words fade out of my head.
What now? I think. I focus on the way
She’s standing by the massive tree, the gray
Streaked through her hair a halo that has wed
Her essence to the glinting interplay
Of light and shadow dancing leaves that sway
And flutter in a breeze that seems to tread
Out from the tree into the fields of day.
The sudden silence morphs into dismay,
Confusion, even, maybe, just a hint of dread.
What if, inside a moment, disarray
Has somehow found our lives and cutaway
The passion in our hearts that’s always led
To moments that are glorious and fey.
But then she smiles. The tree’s roots dig through clay
And living sustenance flows to the spread
Of branches reaching to the sky, the play
Of light her spirit as my spirit’s quay.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
