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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The lips of the rain,
soft at first,
become
cold and stiff
from last night’s
freezing temperatures.
Out on the lake
The black-winged Pelicans
fish in huddles.
They are restored
to their ancient places,
the Great Lakes.
If only we could restore
the people to their rightful places,
bringing young and old back
to their ancient lands.
Instead millions are pushed out
from wars and famines
into a great movement
like schools of fish,
swarming,
moving like a great wheel
across the face of the deep.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
On earth
there are no elements
here of humankind
that work in harmony,
but in the whiteness
of snow there are.
The whiteness is like
no other white.
The snowshoe rabbit
this morning looked
brown against it.
White is holy.
It fights back
the grayness
that is human
and wins —
for a few moments.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Photographs by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The universe
throws out poems
across the stars,
but only the poet
catches them.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 