Tag Archives: father

The Best Gatherer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I remember you best
at blackberry time:

The best gatherer
of our time
who could out-pick
the Champion Blackberry King
with his shining buckets
and mounds upon
of the gems
like your shining
eyes were,
dark, almost black.

I remember you best
when I go
into the woods
to gather berries,
reaching out
for the shining black
and seeing your brown,
strong hands again,
coming home
to show us
your treasures.

How good it felt
this blackberry time.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

The Rhyming of Love

a love poem to Ethel by Thomas Davis

Our fathers died, and then your mother left
And took a train ride to her resting place.
There are no words for senses left bereft
The moment living left our son’s kind face.

Our love was glory when it first began to bloom.
We walked brown hills and felt the sky breathe light—
You took your hesitant, unlikely groom
And gave him more of life than was his right.

The days of work and turmoil, gladness, stress,
Have slowed us down and made us feel our years
As separateness has ground against the press
Of love through joyous days and bitter tears.

From gnarling roots of memories and time,
Love forges symphonies of changing rhyme.


Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis

Long Distance Runner II

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

“I run because it is my culture.”

“My father is not there for me
because he is a drunk.”

“The runners with me
are my family.”

“My culture says that I must greet
the sun by running.”

“I think about my future
when I am running.”

“I think about what my life
is going to be.”


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

His Trouble

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

His trouble didn’t start
in Viet Nam,
although he came back
from the war
and went to live
in a cabin he built
in Northern Wisconsin.
His trouble began
when he was little,
the last of eight children
and a twin.

They put him outside
when he screamed
at supper-time—
the family couldn’t take
two more children.
His siblings taunted him.
His father beat him
when he was older
and poured his anger
and frustration out on him.
He was the scapegoat
of the family.

He still has flashbacks
thirty five years later—
still can’t be around people
or gunshots.

But his peace is in the lynx,
the bear, and the deer,
in watching them
take care of their young.
That’s all he talks about
when you go to see him.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

New Mexico

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

we breathe in sky
and out sky,
like the trees
that grow out of rocks,
breathing in sky and living.

He is our father,
the one who made us,
the one who takes
the sky sounds
of hummingbird wings
and gives them to us,
to be our hearts.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

Phoebe Wood’s Father’s Day Gift to her Father, Rick Wood

Phoebe Wood is our granddaughter


Filed under Art