Tag Archives: poetry

December 21, 2011 · 6:06 am

The Versatile Blogger Award and the Kreativ Blogger Award

At this point Ethel and I are overwhelmed with awards. When you are nominated for an award the honor is deeper than you really deserve. I try to spend part of most days looking for new poets and artists, and when Ethel and I find one our reaction is, Ahhh, so this is what the publishing world missed in its competitiveness! Just think about how many unsung geniuses have existed since humankind discovered painting, song, and literature. The blog world is wonderful because it shares the hearts, spirits, and trying of beginners, those beginning to find their skill, journeymen, and masters, and it does so, as it does with these awards, by passing praise on, building strengths rather than concentrating on weaknesses. A creative explosion is inevitable, and this explosion has led to the creation of a river of creativity larger than the great Mississippi, and the truth is that we are only a small raft on that river, but we thank those who have nominated us and rejoice in their work.

The Versatile Blogger:

1. You must give credit to the person that has nominated you and create a link to their blog in your post.
2. You must create a list of 15 blogs that you enjoy most and link to those as well. Then you must go and tell them you have nominated them. That means if you do not have 15, you cannot do this step. If you do not complete this step, then you cannot claim this award.
3. Finally, you must create a list of seven things about yourself.

Those who have nominated Four Windows Press: Caddo Veil, whose spirit shines through her writing like sunlight on new fallen snow and Heather Whitley Gibson, who is beyond versatile, writing poetry and songs, creating art, and taking photographs that can send you away from a winter storm into another place altogether.

The Kreativ Blogger Award:

For this award Ethel and I have to share 10 things that you may not know. Then we have to pass the award on to at least six (or more) other bloggers.

Those who nominated for windows press: Scriptor Obscura, who deserves fame and fortune as a writer and poet and Slowmoto.Me, whose photographs stun you and poetry moves you the way poetry should move you.

Bloggers for the Versatile Blogger:

1. http://johnstevensjs.wordpress.com
2. gonecyclingagain.wordpress.com
3. fromaflower.wordpress.com
4. sfederle.wordpress.com
5. poeticlicensee.wordpress.com
6. skyraft.wordpress.com
7. ebbtide.wordpress.com
8. bardessdmdenton.wordpress.com
9. creativityaroused.wordpress.com
10. inaweblogisback.wordpress.com
11. erikamossgordon.wordpress.com
12. davidreidart.wordpress.com
13. bennaga.wordpress.com
14. tikarmavodicka.wordpress.com
15. southernmusings.wordpress.com

Bloggers for the Kreative Blogger Award:

1. raindancepoetry.wordpress.com
2. extrasimile.wordpress.com
3. belfastdavid.wordpress.com
4. thebackgroundstory.com
5. tasmith1122.wordpress.com
6. fewhitehead.wordpress.com

These are certainly not all the fine poets, artists, and photographers on wordpress we enjoy, but it is a good sample. Ten things about Ethel and I you may not know:

1. We raised three children and have four grandchildren
2. Ethel was raised on a dairy farm near Wausau, Wisconsin
3. Thomas (Tom) was born in Delta, Colorado and mostly grew up in Grand Junction, Colorado
4. Ethel is an artist as a cook as well as being a wonderful poet and artist
5. Tom is the Dean of Instruction at Navajo Technical College in New Mexico in the Navajo Nation and has been President of two tribal colleges, the co-founder of one, and the Dean and Acting President of another
6. Ethel loves animals with a deep and abiding passion and has been close to rattlesnakes, bears, both bald and golden eagles, and Minnesota wolves, among a long list of others, in the wild
7. Tom is well known in the world of high performance computing and technology and has written a scholarly book on sustainable development
8. We were married in Grand Junction on Christmas day because it was the only time both of us could get off at the time—44 years ago this Christmas day
9. Our house has books on shelves in every room, and we have read every one of the books in the house over the years
10. Ethel studied art at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and Tom did his studies at the University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh and the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay in English, History, and Environmental Science and Policy

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December 20, 2011 · 6:29 am

Winter Days

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I remember
how the winter days
had to be just right,
shining-cold
without a sign of wind,
to get the ponds like glass

and how we shined the glass
beneath the snow
to look at giant seas
caught under the ice
by some surprise glacier.

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December 19, 2011 · 7:13 am

Sonnet 31

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.

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December 17, 2011 · 6:40 am

White Ermine Across Her Shoulders

Ethel’s new book, White Ermine Across Her Shoulders is available now at Barnes and Noble and other online retailers:

White Ermine Across Her Shoulders has all the elements expected by
readers of Ethel Mortenson Davis’s poetry. The lines are highly imagistic
and intense. Descriptions of the earth’s beauty are intermingled with
comments, sometimes caustic, about the human experience. Often a
music rises that is both emotional and filled with language and insights
that remain in the memory long after the book has been put down. This,
Davis’s second volume, speaks eloquently about Kevin Michael Davis, her
son who died of cancer in 2010 in Poughkeepsie, NY, and touches on other
family relationships, making some of the poems more personal than those
she has published before. These poems are balanced with an understanding
of the universe and all of its creatures that encompasses both delight and
wisdom. What makes this collection appealing is an intellectual depth that
resonates, in the way of Emily Dickenson, with the imagistic and emotional
core that has always been a hallmark of Davis’s poetry.

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December 16, 2011 · 6:00 am

Migrations

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The stealth of migrations
move across the land
under cover of darkness,
moving in hundreds
and then thousands.

You told me
about your car lights
shining in a canyon
one night–
“More elk than
one could imagine,”

moving to the southern places
where canyons lap over canyons,
lands whose vastness is greater
than the mind can comprehend,

unlike the northern deer
that migrate further north
to find giant spruce trees
whose branches touch
the ground to make
a snowless, warm canopy
for the wintering.

You said, “The axe blade
is sharpened, ready
to chop the bone
at the joints.”

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December 15, 2011 · 6:18 am

Fall Wildflowers at Chaco Canyon and Walking Doors

Fall Wildflowers at Chaco Canyon, by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son

Walking Doors

by Alazanto, Kevin Davis

An old woman sits at edge of the road.
She waits for doors to walk through her,
but is greeted by a kiss to her cheek
from lush breezes
finding their sanctuary
in a sun who wants to be close.

A jackrabbit takes comfort in scurrying across her feet,
ears trailing a thousand miles–
and dangerous expectations
lunging forward a thousand years.

Some might say
needles of energy
warn of their love
as they patter onto the tops of black umbrellas.

Ripening seashells,
pernicious treetops, and
attentive arrowheads
all follow in slipstream
of that affectionate sun:
nova in a moment’s clarity.

The movement of an eternity
might be introduced to stillness:
Pocket mirrors would turn to sand,
covering the earth
and reflecting a newfound radiance of boiling hope.
Empty clay basins would soon over-wash
with psychical retinas,
as whispers emerge from the roots of long grasses.

In such confusing brilliance…
…the breezes are left to ponder,

“What if the sun no longer wanted to be so close?”

The sun assures,

“My affections are captured by your songs.
We both find sanctuary in our binding differences.
We must never doubt the depths of inspiration.”

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December 13, 2011 · 11:29 am

Tables

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

On my walk
this morning
I reached down to pick
a sacred-colored blossom,
but hummingbird flew out!

I’ll leave this table
for you.

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December 11, 2011 · 7:42 am

Sonnets 4, 8, and 24

by Thomas Davis

4

Three children, daughters and a son, each one
so precious that they sang alive our days,
extending who we were into a sun-
filled destiny where joy and love and praise
would always spin out like a spool of string
into the future where we’d live in glory.

So many memories: The girls on swings,
our son enraptured by a funny story,
the kind of living fashioned from the touch
of life on life, from parents into child,
the common daily motions that are such
a part of who we humans are, selves tiled

into a kaleidoscope of moment histories
defining love, our deepest human mystery.

8

To Mary

As tiny, delicate as butterflies,
she sleeps inside the tent they’ve put her in.
Too young for whooping cough, her breathing, cries,
are fluttering, her living stretching thin
across the fact that she’s too young, too new
to face what is a harsh reality.
A second daughter, miracle so true
she opens up a universe to be.
Her mother spends a night, two nights, tense hours
of waiting, waiting for her breath to clear.

When those you love are threatened, all the towers
of hope constructed when you’re free of fear

are held suspended, waiting for the charm
of holding one small baby in your arms.

24

To Sonja

As beautiful as autumn maple leaves,
Vesuvius fires locked deep inside her bones,
she finds the strength to face her trials and weave
a rising from the place where she’s been thrown.
Sometimes her fires stir up a sweeping wind
that uproots trees and changes what has been,
but through the storms of life she keeps her friends
and throws her stress into a rubbish bin.
First born, her independence drove us wild
when hormones had her stretch her fledgling wings.
We wanted family, but in this shining child
we had a bird who wanted songs she made to sing.

And now she has a husband, two young sons,
A woman walking proudly in the sun.

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December 10, 2011 · 9:07 am

Games

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The white birches:
Young girls
in long, white dresses,
blackberry eyes
peering out,
laughing at the winter,
peeling their dresses,
laughing
with flapping mouths jumping,
swinging in brown grass,
lovers of tall grasses,
hiding in one another’s dresses,

black eyes lost
to racing clouds.
Long, white dresses,
white skins,
lost. . .

left
in the summer’s
games.

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December 8, 2011 · 7:01 am

First Laugh

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The old poet,
thrown out,
weeps across
the desert
until he climbs
the rim of the canyon,
and there he takes
a page from his book
and writes,

“There is a canyon people
who celebrate the first laugh
of their children.”

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