a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
I Love the Woman Whom I Love
by Thomas Davis
I love the woman whom I love,
And in the morning’s world of blue
I wake to bellow hearty songs
That say so simply, “I love you.”
Love is the light of human black.
The tone that brings man up to gray,
And though the world is lost and doomed,
I say it makes today a day.
So, blacken out the joyous sun
And ink away the solemn moon.
I love woman whom I love.
She’ll lighten up a tar-black room.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Portrait of Ethel Mortenson Davis
drawing by Paul Pletka
Paul Pletka is now one of the nation’s best known artists. When Paul came over to our small trailer for supper while we were newlyweds, long before he was famous, he drew this charcoal portrait of Ethel. He had not changed his name to Paul Pletka yet, but was Bill Johnson, one of Tom’s childhood friends. That was 44 years ago now.
Filed under Art
Island Woman
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Across the Fields of Petrified Fire
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Blackness
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
blackness
seeps
in my room.
he crawls up
onto my lap
like the uninvited guest
he always is.
i keep hoping
he’ll leave
before dinner.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
River Stones
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There was a time when I solved the riddle of the universe.
I looked up into the night sky and knew the world would end in fire.
The wonderment of a child turning a smooth stone in his hands was gone.
The stars? A mere ceiling over the world.
Now that I have grown I have no longer solved
the riddle of the universe.
The universe has become a small, smooth river stone
that I turn again and again in my hands.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Visit
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
From the air
I recognize
the greenness of the land,
but especially
the straight, square lines
of sections and highways—
unlike the winding, dusty
roads back home.
I bring a rose
for you, Mama,
nestled in among
names like Berg, Nyquist
And Olson.
Even here
they pick on a person
that does not fit in—
like chickens do
to the least of their own.
These are the descendents
of people who threw
boiling water
from upstairs windows
on the Anishinabe people
as they were marched through
the little towns of Minnesota.
I touch the turquoise
around my neck
and feel its warmth.
In that vast desert
back home,
there is a place called acceptance,
a place my people
would call
a wasteland.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Red Mesa
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
While Sonja, our daughter, and William, our grandson, visited in New Mexico, we went up a canyon not far from our house in Continental Divide. Both Sonja and Ethel took photos as we drove up the canyon, stopping at different times on the way. The light was perfect, resulting in some spectacular work by both photographers. Sonja and William, after this photo was taken, hiked to the red cliffs that rose above them in the sunlight.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Night Sky
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The stars laugh and laugh,
laughing in an ocean of laughter,
moving-water laughter,
until the sky can hold no more
and joins in laughing
with black face and shining teeth.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 