by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Because we walked to the edge of the water, a loon surprised us with two young clinging on her back— geometric black and white spots on top of a still, early morning mirror.
Tag Archives: mirror
Mirror
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
2
by Thomas Davis
2
He talked about the mirror of the lake,
reflected trees and cloud and sky, the still
so absolute, the waters dark, opaque,
no wind, no breath, no birds, no human will
to mar the moment made for memory
entangled in the webs of days and hours
that jumble, jangle, pounce, drone, laugh, and flee
across and through the fields of flowers
surrounding us and all the love we miss
but know inside our livers, gall stones, hearts
as hours blend into hours and all our bliss
becomes a mirror that is but a part
of floating on a lake of trees and sky.
As rain begins to fall, a loon begins to cry.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
2
by Thomas Davis
He talked about the mirror of the lake,
reflected trees and clouds and sky, the still
so absolute, the waters dark, opaque,
no wind, no breath, no birds, no human will
to mar the moment made for memory
entangled in the webs of days and hours
that jumble, jangle, pounce, drone, laugh, and flee
across and through the fields of flowers
surrounding us and all the love we miss
but know inside our livers, gall stones, hearts
as hours blend into hours, and all our bliss
becomes a mirror that is but a part
of floating on a lake of trees and sky.
As rain begins to fall, a loon begins to cry.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Pain
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When I came close
to you,
you took a knife
and began
stabbing me all over.
And
the pain
was so great
I could hardly
bear it.
But, as I looked
into the mirror
there were
no wounds, no blood.
But I felt great pain
and many stab wounds.
How could this be?
I looked again
into the mirror,
and on your chest
were many wounds,
and
blood was pouring out
all over
your body.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
