by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ve come again
to watch your woods,
snow up to my thighs,
winds flying
across the tops of trees—
like when I was little.
On windy days
I would run
into the woods
and listen to the wind
roaring across the tops
of trees,
but stillness would
be beneath.
I think of trees
as family,
kin,
those that are
always there,
steel cores,
centurions
that guard us
from all the clamor
at the top,
the quiet and stillness
beneath,
close family.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
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
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
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
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
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
fourwindowspress 