by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I saw them
in strings,
making the shape of V’s,
Canadian Geese,
flying high enough
to use the lake’s edge
as their guide:
Blue-green water
with white foam
at the edges,
over rushes with dark red plumes
on their trek
southward.
For our world will
become lesser
without them,
not as full of life
as the wet summer
has been
while we wait
for the silent season
of winter—
and for the quiet winter
of our life,
a more diminished one,
a lesser world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When all human
intervention has harmed us,
when all familia
have spent the fruits,
then the Great Spirit
gives to us our opening
from the darkness,
from the “going down
into the pit of our own agony,”
a candle,
a birth, a rite
into a new life.
Then we are assured—
like the mother tiger
who reassures her young
that they belong
to a family,
that they are important
in this world.
This is what it’s like—
White blossoms on a branch.
Note: I owe the quotation and inspiration for this poem to Herron, Elizabeth. 2010. Poetry for the Ear of God.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
On Friday nights I’d work all day, then walk
home from the office where two teenaged girls
were streaming past their mother with their talk
about this boy, this girl, their endless whirl
of friend, near-friend relationships that bloomed
and changed like clothing changed from day to day.
The minute that I touched the door excitement spumed
as I gulped down a meal before Green Bay—
and then we drove for forty country miles
to where two girls could dance and laugh to songs
and show that small town girls had mastered styles
that big town girls would envy all night long.
I sat inside a dinghy Burger King
and read while daughters spread their teen club wings.
Note: This sonnet was published earlier on fourwindowspress.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Her reach finds
small openings
in the forest canopy
until the carpet
at the bottom brings
every kind of plant and fern to formation.
These are true families
that enjoy each other’s company–
some living at the top of hills,
other kinds in depressions–
trees that are dependent
on plants around them,
plants that only live by certain trees.
Step lightly.
Speak in whispers,
for there are babies sleeping
everywhere.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Thomas Davis
As cold as morning mist upon a hill
Above the lake that danced light from the sun,
The woman stood and felt a warning chill
That screamed at her and made her want to run,
But, frozen, scared, she turned toward the wood
And shadows where a massive white wolf stood.
She did not move. The wolf’s wild, pale green eyes
Stared balefully at her, its body tense
With energies she somehow felt, the skies
Above them darkening with clouds so dense
A twilight lengthened shadows, made her feel
A rush of fear she thought she should conceal.
Eyes fixed on her, the wolf stepped from the trees
So slowly that she barely saw him move.
She could not make her rigid legs unfreeze,
But stared back at the wolf as if to prove
The fear she felt was courage free of fear
Though pale green eyes, half closed, made death seem near.
The wolf crouched down as if to spring at her,
But then its head jerked north toward a stand
Of young white pine, eyes concentrated, fur
Around its neck alive. The woman’s hand
Moved, broke paralysis. A great gray bear
Rose up inside the pines, the wolf’s cold glare.
The bear glanced at the woman as she backed
Away from wolf and bear, then, anthracite
Inside its eyes, glared at the wolf, strength stacked
Against a spirit brimming with a light
That darkened morning skies and choked the day
With time suspended as it stalked its prey.
The great bear roared. The white wolf bared its teeth
And growled, its spirit kicking up a breeze
That blew into the bear’s black eyes beneath
A dead still canopy, the forest’s trees
Now covered with a brooding, bristling night
Contrasting with the wolf’s bright, shining white—
And then the wolf was gone, the bear alone.
It stared at where the wolf had stood and felt
The emptiness beneath the trees, the drone
Of singing wind as rain began to pelt
The ground and run in muddy rivulets
That clouded in the bear’s stirring spirit.
At last the bear fell down and stuck his claws
In earth, the human woman haunting him:
The fear inside her eyes, the wolf’s white paws
Prepared to spring into the stunning hymn
Of beauty circling her, the way she held her head
As wolf’s eyes counted her as prey soon dead.
The bear sniffed stormy air and found the path
She’d used to flee the wolf and him and stalked
Toward impossibility, an aftermath
That could not be, that mocked him as he walked
In air perfumed with beauty’s human scent,
A woman’s song of being, heaven sent.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Let me tell you
that the old gods
will not help us.
When we pray
by the wayside
they will not
listen to our tears.
For they are deaf,
stone deaf
like the ancient boulders
we walked between
this morning—
cold and unconcerned—
among the sweetness
of blooming honeysuckle.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It looks to me as though
you’ve been around, perhaps,
since time began—
and I have lived at least
as long.
Oh? Only that much time?
I’m sure there was no life
before for you or me.
How could I know your face
so well?
As well as some old rock
I’ve seen hang, clinging
to a mountain wall,
and I know what wave of brightness,
or of darkness, to expect there
waiting for me.
You step and make some rounded move.
I know beforehand which way to go.
How could I know? Unless. . .
You’ve been around, perhaps,
since time began.
I know I’ve lived at least as long.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Miltonian Caudet Sonnet
by Thomas Davis
They crawled out from their canvas tent and stared
At stumps still littered through the opening
Their two man saw had cut into the spring-
Deep twilight made by woods so thick they dared
An axe to fell a wilderness that flared
Across so many miles no bird could wing
Its way to planted orchards blossoming
Into the dream the couple, logging, shared.
So tired she barely kept her head upright,
The woman started up the morning fire.
She sighed to see the stumps that made the field
Look strange inside the early morning light,
An emptiness surrounded by the choir
Of birds in trees where she in silence kneeled.
“The canopy is peeled
Away enough to let us plant the trees,”
He said. “Their blossoms will attract the bees.”
She looked and tried to tease
The cherry trees he saw into her mind,
But all she saw were stumps, work’s endless grind.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
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