by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At sunrise
she began to dance
so that humanness
would seep back
into the earth,
into the lowest
parts of the earth.
She danced for
the murdered
and missing,
the lost and forsaken.
Then,
she danced
all through the night
for the inhumanness
that filled her heart,
for the hatred and lack of love
that had captured her.
She danced and danced
until inhumanity
drained out of her,
out of the farthest parts
of the earth,
until the sun
came back to the world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter
Filed under Art, Photography
a children’s poem by Thomas Davis
A dragon ate away the night!
Clouds, white from fear, fled through the sky.
A morning trumpet stormed to flight
As reeds lay silent, hushed and shy.
The sun burned red into sky-blue.
Great ships sailed white from burning sun.
A lonely goose with honking flew
Up from hushed pickets, slim and glum.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Thomas Davis
I love the woman whom I love,
And in the morning’s world of blue
I wake to bellow hearty songs
That say so simply, “I love you.”
Love is the light of human black.
The tone that brings man up to gray,
And though the world is lost and doomed,
I say it makes today a day.
So, blacken out the joyous sun
And ink away the solemn moon.
I love woman whom I love.
She’ll lighten up a tar-black room.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Thomas Davis
the journey of the elephants
One day in early June
Shook trees and shook the peaceful ground
And even shook the moon!
Then, with a movement huge and slow,
The herd began to run,
And thunder pealed amidst the hills
So loud it shook the sun!
Note: This was the first children’s poem I wrote. We were going to college in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, and Sonja loved to ride on my back and call me her elephant herd. Mary had just been born and was in her crib while her older sister and I played in our small living room, and so this small poem was born.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
below the hasty gridlock of contradictions
and among minced words on tall podiums,
a man preaches about compassion,
his eyes limpid.
an annishinabe woman once told me about relationships:
her people, skidding across moments, carried by wisdom,
the blood of her people seeping through these moments,
droplets ingrained with the soil.
but does the soil judge us as a merciless god?
my eyes follow a parched river basin.
the sun retreats to greet those who have been forgotten.
resting on the horizon, the flow of the river can still be felt.
bloods join, racing through the veins of sleepy sandstone cliffs.
their faces emerge in the crisp warmth of sunset, eyes limpid.
compassion and inequality, conflated, are left to fend on barren streets.
the woman taught me that no matter our origins,
drops of our blood seek out clemency.
rivers flow.
soils take root.
the earth does not judge,
but among our minced words progress paves over the basins,
and our blood is sealed away.
Filed under Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The monsoons
sweeten the bounty
of the high desert meadows.
Curious blossoms
burst out everywhere.
Green grass
carried in the bellies of horses
finally becomes enough.
Perhaps the monsoons
will not return next year.
Our earth is not a permanent habitat.
One day our sun will explode
and melt our earth.
It will not care for us forever–
like my dog knows instinctively
when I leave her in the driveway.
Perhaps I will not return.
Perhaps that means
the end of her.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.”
Filed under Art, Photography, Poetry
This is for you Grandpa and Nana from Will! He made it during recess.
Filed under Art
fourwindowspress 