Tag Archives: Venus

Love’s Coming

by Thomas Davis

As bright as any stone alive with mind,
Pygmalion touched his statue’s stony lips
And told sweet Venus that he’d strike her blind
If stony thighs were not made fleshy hips.

Cold Venus smiled a stony smile and laughed.
She put Medusa’s mask upon her lovely face.
Pygmalion stared at stone-wild eyes half daft,
Afraid of stone, still filled with hope for grace.

With wily wonder in her lovelost look,
Sweet Venus snaked her hair into the night.
Pygmalion’s mind turned stone, his flesh, cold, shook
With fears inspired by stone’s wild face of fright.

Then Venus smiled with warmth, took off her mask.
Pygmalion’s love fled stone. Alive at last!


Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis

So Small

Note: Our big move from Continental Divide, New Mexico to Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin is finally complete. We drove over 1,200 miles with our two dogs, Pax and Juneau, and the moving truck showed up, and we are a long way toward removing everything from boxes. Sturgeon Bay is beautiful, located on a peninsula that juts out into Lake Michigan. Our daughters, Sonja and Mary, their husbands, Bill and Rick, and three of our grandchildren, Phoebe, Will, and Joey, were on hand to greet and help us. Without their help we would still be struggling along rather than comfortably situated. We are located less than two blocks from the bay of Sturgeon Bay and a couple of miles from Green Bay, the bay that stretches from the Lake, past Sturgeon Bay, to the famous city of the famous football team. Right now Canadian geese are flying over the house during all the hours of daylight, and, when it is not raining, sun shines on the dark blue of lake waters and waves. Tom and Ethel

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

At night
with wildrose eyes,
climbs down
her ladder
of matchstick rungs
she disappears
the trees,
the horizon,
the earth.

So small she seems.
But in reality
she is so large,
the distance between
the stars
so great.

I wonder,
when we start
travelling between stars,
and we look back at the earth,
If we will have regrets?”

Like the mother fox
this morning who doubled
back across the highway
to check if her dead young
were still alive.

Will we regret not
taking care of each other?


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry