
Category Archives: Thomas Davis
A Doodle Poem
By Thomas Davis
When I dipped the doodle,
the universe roared back.
I tried to roar at the universe’s roar,
but the sound I made was so weak
it didn’t even register
above the sounds gravity wells make
in the deepest space
where vacuum eliminates all sound.
At that point I felt like a rooster
crowing on a fence as the sun almost rises,
so filled with myself
I had to dodge the farmer’s shout
as he yelled at me to at least wait
until the sun actually rose
before making a damn fool of myself.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
Hummingbirds in New Mexico
When we lived in Continental Divide, New Mexico, one of the many glories of the area where we lived at the foot of the Zuni Mountains were the great hummingbirds that were in the area from spring to fall. Sometimes in the pinion trees outside our house, hundreds of hummingbirds gathered and then dive bombed, perched, and hovered around the red feeders that Ethel filled multiple times a day. Gold, green, brown, and red flashed in the special New Mexico light as a celebration of life and living darted here and there all over our yard and into the field where horses were grazing out the back window. Sometimes Ethel would go out to water the wildflower garden she kept going until winter set in through the hottest of summer days. The hummingbirds didn’t seem to have any fear of her, but buzzed within inches of her head as they dipped in and out of the spraying water. The high desert is so dry so much of the year, and you would think that life had to have an almost impossible time surviving. Yet, the hummingbirds, beautiful and raucous, were only part of what was present in this unbelievably beautiful place with its small mountains and soaring red cliffs. Birds, elk, mountain lions, mule deer, antelope, jack rabbits, and a host of other life survived among the pinion and juniper forests that spread out over the land. Sometimes we’d even have a stellar jay landing beneath our apple trees, its dramatic crown and blue fire startling as it strutted in the small shade. This was hummingbird heaven–a place where we could sit in our living room as a fiery sunrise blazed on the eastern horizon and watched dawn glint off hummingbird wings.

Filed under Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Thomas Davis
I was amazed
by Thomas Davis
At the Door County Published Author Book Fair last weekend, I was amazed. Four different people came up and told me that In the Unsettled Homeland of Dreams was the best book they have ever read. One person told me that The Prophecy of the Wolf was their favorite book. Ethel’s new book, The Woman and the Whale, was also popular, especially with her pastel on the cover, and, I suspect, outsold any other poetry book at the fair.
I remember spending so many years writing and writing and having absolutely no luck at all. If either Ethel and I had sold five books at that point in our lives, we would have been so excited that we would have probably floated into the air and shined more brightly than the sun. These days those days seem like a distant past, but this blog was established partially because we both wanted readers. Our beloved son Kevin (Alazanto) Davis had died, and we felt lost in a bewilderment of emotions. When we started getting readers and then more readers, some as eminent as John Looker, the wonderful English poet, we started to believe in our writing with more optimism in our spirits.
Both of us have always written from childhood on. Ethel’s art and poetry has always been a magic part of who she is. I published my first poem in The Daily Sentinel in Grand Junction, Colorado during my first year at Mesa College. With Richard Brenneman, I had also helped put together a small poetry journal in Grand Junction called The Rimrock Poets Magazine that included work by Ethel. Sometimes during those years, a poem would appear in a literary journal or magazine, but those were rare, rather than common instances, even though Ethel was, and clearly is, a major, major talent as a poet.
Not long after founding this blog, Ethel decided we would publish her first book using the new ability to self publish. I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico was quickly followed up by White Ermine Across Her Shoulders. I kept trying to get published with little success until I wrote the epic poem, The Weirding Storm (a book that I still think is perhaps some of my best writing), which was published by Bennison Press in Great Britain. By then our blogging friend, John Looker, had introduced me to Bennison Press, and I took a wild chance and sent the manuscript to Deborah Bennison, the publisher.
I love selling books to people person to person at book fairs and book events at book stores and other places. I suspect my father’s spirit gave me that love when he had us boys work at the grocery store he and my mother ran for all the years we were at home. I wish I had some skill at marketing beyond that skill. Still, these days I feel like I have arrived as a writer, especially in the Sturgeon Bay area where we now live and the part of New Mexico where we used to live. What a wonderful joy that has become in my life.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
Ode to Trump’s Golden Toilet
I’ve heard that golden toilets stink
Just like any other toilet.
Of course, those who say that don’t understand
That Trump’s golden toilet
Blooms with fields of wildflowers,
And Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony trumpets
When he enters the bathroom
To declare that He is the One, the only One.
I can’t really tell if what I’ve heard is right
Either one way or another.
I’ve never even dreamed of having a gold toilet,
And if I had one, I’d been afraid to sit on it.
After all, we must remember
That when Dionysius gave Midas the golden touch
He fervently wished for,
He even turned his daughter into solid gold!
Who knows what the greed exhibited
By owning a golden toilet can lead to?
I personally prefer my toilets to be porcelain.
Filed under I ought to go eat worms, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
The Miracle of Navajo Technical University

This is my newest book. I put the together with a number of colleagues from Navajo Tech where I was the Provost up until my retirement. Navajo Tech and the 38 tribal colleges and universities (TCUs) are in serious trouble from the budget cuts in Washington DC. Several colleges, like the iconic and irreplaceable Institute of American Indian Arts, is in danger of closing. IAIA has had its budget totally eliminated in the House of Representative budget now going to Congress. The TCUs are one of the greatest innovations in higher education during the late 20th and early 21st century. Losing them is unthinkable.
What I wanted to achieve with this book is to use Navajo Tech as a lens to illustrate just how valuable the tribal colleges are on several levels: To the students they serve, the Native Nations that chartered them, and the United States as whole. The science and technology at Navajo Tech is world class, and its defense of culture and language has led to the creation of the first PhD program by a TCU. It is a miracle that needs to be strengthened as it tackles the grand challenge of generational poverty and provides both an educational and economic development model about how poverty in any community can be reversed.
I am hoping those who buy this book, encourage their library to purchase it so they can read it, or simply get the chance to read it will write their Congresspeople, Senators or Representatives, and express just how much the TCUs deserve support. This book will help you, I hope, not only learn about Navajo Tech but also the Navajo people and the strength of who they are as a people.
Filed under Published Books, Thomas Davis
The Yo Yo President
by Thomas Davis
Our yo yo President (I liked yo yoing when I was a kid)
has been doing a lot of yoing lately.
Tariffs are up--or down,
or maybe tomorrow they’ll yo again.
Walmart suggests increased expenses,
brought about by higher tariffs,
will result in higher prices in their big box stores,
and Trump’s snarl of rage
yos like a tornado through the news media--
those evil instruments of darkness.
But let me tell you,
the slightly overweight clownish ring master
with orangish hair that looks like a wig
who has a bright red face
is a yo yo master.
He spins words and emotions down, walks them around,
and then pulls them back up
until his supporters are spinning
like a mad field of glorious tops,
sparking emotion, rage, laughter,
and feelings of we've got the elites now!
all of the place.
And they are the calm ones
as the media dances, his opponents foam,
and what has been no longer is.
Topsy-turvy is just the yo yo master
yoing his yo, claiming that everything destructive
of the old order is, after all, a jest--
even if some child in Africa dies of hunger or disease
because of what he’s done.
Of course, the dead are the undead.
We all know that.
Lately he’s been yo yoing out pardons
to insurrectionists, crooks, tax cheats,
and crooked politicians (as long as they’re Republican).
At the same time, he’s accepted a flying palace
from a rich Arab nation eager to buy his favor
and hawking worthless meme coins with His image.
He glorying in crypto, the path to becoming rich!
If your name is Trump,
And Tesla cars that his rich buddy Elon Musk sells.
Mostly, he’s stuffing his and his family’s pockets
While removing cash from those who believe in Him.
The South African President told him,
after he found out he was leading a nation
of racists against white people,
that if he had an airplane,
he’d give it to the Golden One.
The Golden One declared
that he’d sure accept something like that.
But, of course, the South African President
doesn’t have a flying palace,
and anyway, he’s one of those black men
that didn’t like Apartheid.
Too bad for him.
My own opinion is,
LET THE CORRUPTION RISE!
America has been the citie on the hill too long.
It’s time for poor people and regular citizens to suffer
while the rich have their opulent parties.
When the idea of American has been destroyed,
Trump, no longer the President,
will still be using his golden toilet
and proclaiming He’s the Greatest President ever!
in the entire history of the universe
and the Time of God, his Eternal friend!
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
In the Time of Putin, Netanyahu, Hamas, and Trump
By Thomas Davis
I was sitting in my dream talking
to this being not from a human woman’s womb,
but who looked human, almost.
“Your galaxy has around three hundred billion suns,” it said.
“There’s maybe two trillion galaxies,
each galaxy with billions of suns.”
It smiled at me, although I wasn’t sure
what I was seeing was a smile.
“Planets are more common than suns.
The question you keep asking yourself is:
with all those planets,
why haven’t you found intelligent life?”
It stretched legs and arms not quite legs and arms.
“The truth is,” it said casually. “Intelligence is aggressive.
A blob of life rises from primordial soup,
competes with other blobs.
Intelligence conjures
from the blobs that figure out how to survive.
. . . and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea,
and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle,
and over all the earth,
and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.”
“The problem is,” it continued.
“Intelligence is necessary to communicate outward,
trying to find planets where intelligence
has been aggressive enough to understand
it couldn’t possibly be alone in the universe.
“But, before two aliens can find each other:
fusion wars, pandemics, populations that can’t control themselves
and breed until destroyed through mass starvation,
greenhouse gases that drive planets out of control,
or the former blobs have become intelligent enough
come to understand intelligence is the problem
and take up navelgazing rather than trying to communicate . . .”
It shrugged, looked, glittering, into my eyes.
Filed under I ought to go eat worms, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
The Metaphors in “The Healing Journey” by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Thomas Davis
I don’t know that I have ever written anything about one of Ethel’s poems. She’s my wife, after all, and my love for her is as deep as it was the day we were married over 57 years ago, but I thought I’d write on the Easter at least a note about this particular poem. It’s not the only poem she’s written that deserves an essay, of course. You could write a book on the poems that are meaningful and/or powerful enough to deserve commentary.
“Healing Journey” is about a particular place, at least on the surface. Ethel was raised on a dairy farm not too far from Wausau, Wisconsin, and near her parent’s farm is a park called Eau Claire Dells. It’s a beautiful place with black stone, waterfalls, a small canyon, and the deep woods of Wisconsin’s northern mixed hardwood conifer forest. Large maples, basswood, and other hardwood trees are mixed with a scattering of conifers.
The poem starts out with a rich description of the Eau Claire Dells, “the glacial forest” on a warm and humid day. The poet is climbing the high trail that leads to a bridge that spans the highest part of the small canyon that has a river in its depths, “black granite waters.” As daylight fades, “the moss-covered boulders looked like giants strewn/by some ancient glacier eons ago.” At this point, the poem takes on its metamorphic character. Time suddenly encompasses the ancient world as well as the present-day world. In the present, “the cold air rose around my legs” and “Water trickled down everywhere — through the moss carpet/thick with the red mushroom.”
The strong, specific nature of image are characteristic of all Ethel’s poetry, of course. The sense of water in the river and trickling “down everywhere” gives us a feeling of richness, of a different place where time is stretched out while still being as fluid as water, as the “everywhere” notion that is so powerful in this particular stanza. Time becomes a landscape, preparing us for the mysticism that is at the heart of what is to follow..
What is to follow is encompassed in “I had come here before, hoping to resolve a riddle,/but now I had a disease within my body and needed help.” The poet is not well, and the disease she has is troubling her, is a riddle she feels like she must solve. She needs help.
After this line the poet comes to a bridge over the canyon. The metaphors are obvious here. There are dark waters below as they run through dark granite. A bridge takes from one side to another. A canyon in a lot of Ethel’s poetry is a symbol that has to do with a depth that must be crossed. Granite is an age-old symbol of permanence, of rock the wears away only slowly over the ages, so the poet has come to a transition over the darkness of the deep (of death? Of the darkness in the world?) while she is ill, looking to cross over from all she is experiencing.
In these troubled times, it is not difficult to see the poet as a symbol for all humanity, ill, facing a chasm where dark waters are rushing over the dark river that is always next to its journey or below its passage.
The description of the bridge, “. . .black and strong,/made with spaces between the floor planks wide enough/to see the great height at which I was,” allowing the poet to see the river as “a black granite ribbon glistening in the dim light,” is a comforting image. The bridge is strong even if it’s boards are spaced wide apart and won’t collapse if the poet steps from the path she is in on to brave the crossing she intends to make.
Then she sees across the bridge in a clearing in the forest, the wilderness, “a large crowd of people./Their faces were as warm as their hands.” The symbol of hands is interesting here. A hand is also a bridge between human beings. We reach out our hand to help someone that needs that reaching out. In this cases the crowd of faces is also reaching out as the poet crosses the bridge, the chasm, and the dark river.
Then another character enters into the poem. There is no transition here. The nightingale doesn’t appear in anyway. Instead, it whispers: These are people that have helped you/In some way throughout your life.” In classic literature the nightingale is symbolic of beauty, love, and melancholy. It’s known for its beautiful song, which has been linked to spring, mourning, and love throughout history. In the contemporary world it often represents the muse or, sometimes, spiritual purity. I suspect Ethel is using the metaphor to represent the muse inside her without losing the older use of beauty, love, and melancholy. Crossing the chasm and the dark river is not celebratory. It is a spiritual journey that has a sense of purity inside it.
After seeing the people who have helped her during her life, day turns to night, but this is not the night of the dark waters in the river below the chasm. She turns around and crosses the bridge, and “the moon was beginning to shine on the water,” but not only in the water, but also in the poet. She has crossed the bridge and now is crossing it again, changed, especially in her spirit, in a significant way.
In that crossing, the poet “felt as if the sun was beginning to rise.” The dark waters and the chasm still exist, but as in the lines of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel, crossing the bridge has eased her mind–as well as her spirit.
“Healing Journey” is a quintessential Easter poem. Many people reading Ethel’s poems see only the surface created by the powerful, often beautiful, images she evokes. However, like most great poets that deserve a wide audience, there’s often more than one way to read her poems. In a recent review of her latest book, The Woman and the Whale, Estella Lauter, the poet and critic, said that many of her poems are metaphors, and there is truth in that statement.
The resurrection from the fear/anxiety of illness, whether it is in a single human being or humankind as whole, to the spiritual purity in experiencing the whisper of the nightingale (whether it is a muse or spirituality–and what is the difference between these?), sings into any reader who looks this deeply into this poem.
Filed under Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry, Thomas Davis