Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

September 27, 2015 · 8:11 am

The Art of Craig Blietz

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

His art is of cows, goats, and pigs,
but mainly dairy cows, Holsteins,

great portraits of black and white Holsteins
posing with dignity and grace,
one with a large, bulging vein
running the length of the under belly
to its udder,

portraits rich in painterly quality,
showing a wondrous love for these animals.

A downed cow,
too sick to get on its feet,
is dragged with chains
to the slaughtering yard.

A man kicks her in the head
on her way past him,
dignity and grace
still in her eyes.

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Tagged as art of cows, Blietz, Craig Blietz, dignity and grace, downed cow, dragged with chains, Ethel Mortenson Davis, slaughtering yard, wondrous love

August 27, 2015 · 9:16 am

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.

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Tagged as animals and birds, circling house, Davis, elephant skin, Ethel Mortenson Davis, grace and gratitude, killed, poached, protecting elephants, trunks of cedar trees

July 26, 2015 · 7:22 am

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.

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Tagged as butterfly, Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, federal prison, freedom, old man, poems, spider web, the meaning of air, white butterfly

July 21, 2015 · 8:37 am

Troubled Waters

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Tagged as abstract, art, colorist, Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, pastel, Troubled Waters

July 11, 2015 · 9:52 am

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.

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Tagged as Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, family, lily, poems, rose, sisters, white daisy

June 10, 2015 · 4:03 pm

Fawn

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The rain yields
to the drying wind,
trilliums ceasing,
forget-me-nots thriving,

the dogs loving
the walk in the morning rain.
The afternoon sun
puts the old dog to sleep.

Tomorrow
the flickering light
will lock
the fawn in hiding
in the meadow grasses
in the deep forest.

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May 19, 2015 · 7:48 am

It is the end
of Door Peninsula,
the Newport Beach forest,

less dense now
from the gale winds
of last September
that toppled dead trees,
crisscrossing their trunks
ahead on our path
amidst living, smaller trees.

There are no words
to describe the large
old pines and cedars,
the largest trees
I have ever seen in Wisconsin —

not the picked over
forest trees
of two and three cuttings
that mostly remain here.

So tall these trees
along Lake Michigan,
dripping morning fog
on top of our heads and faces
from their skyscraper canopy.

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May 10, 2015 · 10:17 am

On Mother’s Day

by Thomas Davis

Outside winds howled with snow and bitter cold.
The phone rang: “Mrs. Davis?” asked a girl.
She sounded frightened. “Yes?” Her voice controlled,
too soft, the girl said, “Kevin…” Strong emotions swirled
into the howling of the storm, the cold, the snow.
“I’m scared,” she said at last. His mother caught her breath.
He’s hours away, she thought. It’s twenty-five below.
The roads are ice. This is a night for death.
“I’ll wait here with him, but you have to come.”
No cars were on the road that late at night.
She crawled across the miles, the constant drum
of howling winds accentuating fright
that made her fierce when, shaken, stunned,
she put her arms around her struggling son.

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Tagged as a night for death, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Kevin, Mother's Day, sonnet, storm, strong emotions, struggling son

May 5, 2015 · 10:59 am