by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There,
in the bright morning,
hepatica,
whose leaves stay alive
under the dead layer
all winter,
send up flowers
before all others.
It is here where
the pale pink and lavender
are the door opening
to where my god lives:
Her angels are the birds
opening their wings.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a children’s poem by Thomas Davis
Way down in Caf∞a∞ghan∞a∞stan,
Down by the restless, wave-tossed seas,
I met my true love walking home
Through sands, past forest trees.
The flowers, lemon-blossomed yellow
Spread out beneath the sun
And blossomed spring-time on the earth
And put cold winter on the run.
The pearl gray oysters fell to flocks
Of kiwi birds with prying beaks,
And long-eared owls laughed at the moon
And fished from moonless creeks.
Way down in Caf∞a∞ghan∞a∞stan,
Down by the restless, wave-tossed seas,
I met my true love walking home
Through sands, past forest trees.
My love wore golden earrings bright
And a gown of misty, sea-morn blue.
My love turned day into the night
And said to give this poem to you.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
a photography by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Taken November 19, 2009
Filed under Art, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
i the old woman,
with breath on my hand,
have come before–
down this hill with stoney sides–
have come
with
the spears of grass
against my legs–
and then the sea
and its green smells
after the rain–
until this garden.
i have come
thinking
the flowers to be richer
in the coming spring,
reaching out for their smell
with only my finger tips,
sitting awhile,
and waiting.
i the old woman
have passed
the sea
many times,
not looking
at the whale
of the waves,
thinking i have
time,
tomorrow.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 