Category Archives: Thomas Davis

Recipe for Metamorphosis, Democracy to Dictatorship

By Thomas Davis

First, secure a charismatic character,
preferably a male who has lived a flawed life
seething with perceived slights and resentments.
Then have him attract two kinds of followers:
those who believe society has left them unfairly behind
and those who can imagine their support for such a leader
can help them gain power, wealth, or prestige.

After the charismatic leader secures followers
through outrageous statements and dramatic performative art,
enflame resentments against elites and their status quo,
laying claim to a mythological glorious past with glorious values
that only a Great Leader can magically bring back to life—
as Christ did with Lazarus.
Claim divine intervention in the Great Leader’s life,
proving beyond doubt that God is on the Great Leader’s side
as he crusades against society’s carnage brought about by elites,
even if they masquerade as common people,
that have gained benefits they clearly don’t deserve.

Then, have the Anointed One win His election
by making Him the only news worth covering by the press
as he attacks the press and paints them as part of the hated elite.
Let the Great Leader encourage his followers
to attack those not absolutely on his and their side
so that everyone begins to fear being the target of the Great Leader’s wrath.
Attack the integrity of elections,
claiming fraud where no fraud exists.
Eliminate voters from voting rolls in places where the vote might be negative.
And always, let the Great Leader be outrageous and bold
and filled with the glory of who He is and who He will be.

Then mix in rich oligarchs willing to fund
ugly campaigns against any opposition,
creating division among different populations of people whenever possible,
making good people afraid to step out in the line fire,
fearing to have reputations and lives damaged by lies advertised against them.
Enrich the supporting rich with government largesse beyond measure.
as power flows into the Great Leader’s glory.
Develop and implement policies that hurt
the stranger, the poor, the old, the handicapped, anyone
who his followers can see as lesser than themselves because of his actions.

Create a new Golden Age
brought to fruition by the Great Leader’s genius
as he thumps his chest and has his minions praise his glorious leadership
over and over again.

Celebrate dictators around the world and attack democracies as leeches
taking unfair advantage of a country that has benefited from their trade
and become the rich democracy it has become.
Get the public to recognize the glorious strength of strong men.

Accustom those who have always seen themselves as good people
to cruelty as immigrant children and families are deported,
starving children in famine areas die as aid that kept them alive is yanked away,
and families with the need for special programs spend nights crying
as they worry about whether they are going to lose benefits
and lose all as they face increased disability, illness, or some other devastation.

Let the Great Leader mock those who fought in the War to End All Wars
or the soldiers who protected the country
or became prisoners of war because they were fools
as he declares love for the military he attacks,
weakening the honor a country has for its independent military structure.
Then begin to erode the rights of the press and poets who write poems he doesn’t like
or artists who create art that anybody who is Great can see is ugly.
And always, create dramas that dominate the news
as He mocks those who report on or oppose his antics,
claiming He is the only one whose words count,
that the Great Leader who saves the country can break no law or tell no lie.

And as you are doing all of this,
use raw power to begin dismantling society’s norms and institutions,
creating norms and institutions in Your image,
claiming norms and institutions that created and maintained
peace and prosperity for seventy years has led to carnage and failure.

And after institutions and norms have been damaged beyond repair,
point out how terrible the previous leadership was to allow such failures
and blame them for every problem the Great Leader creates.
Surround the Great Leader with sycophants
as everyone must acknowledge the gloriousness of the Great Leader’s Glory.

Metamorphosis is complete:
Democracy is no longer needed. The Great, divine Leader is the country that serves him.

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Looking for DEIs

by Thomas Davis

I’ve been looking around for DEIs,
But I haven’t found any yet.
I thought at first, they were like gremlins,
Little people-like creatures that mostly looked ugly.
I know they are black, brown, yellow, and woman,
But every black, brown, yellow, and woman I know
Wouldn’t answer to, “Come here, DEI,”
Any more than I would,
And anyway, even a gremlin
Wouldn’t crash a plane and helicopter
With seventy-six people on board,
Would they?

I thought about asking our congressman,
Or maybe our President,
To draw me a picture of a DEI
So I’d recognize one when I saw one,
But then I thought to myself,
What if they are a DEI hire in disguise?
Can’t anybody paint themselves up
as a white Christian man?
What then?

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After Bucha, Ukraine

By Thomas Davis

Bucha was known as Ukraine’s Switzerland. Now it is synonymous with unimaginable horror.

            Charles McPhedran, Mother Jones Magazine


I keep imagining Yevtushenko on a Moscow stage in 1961,
young, eyes bright, arms flailing, his pacing energy
exploding into a wild, deep voice
as he declaims about Babi Yar and Stalin’s evil
as Jewish bodies decayed in an unmarked ravine in Ukraine.

I keep seeing the Russian crowd,
glittering sophistication,
stunned at first and then roaring
as poetry stirs in the Russian soul
and reminds them that Stalin, the Tsars,
the years when peasants struggled for survival,
the siege of the Nazis at Stalingrad
were the past, never to be repeated.

Inside that image, I keep sensing
the old Russian bear stirring,
shapeshifting, growling old resentments
into bombs that explode into apartment buildings
and schools and maternity wards
where new-born babies and their mothers
lie screaming as walls shudder and fall.

And I keep wondering if it is Russians
rising out of their history into rage—

or if the Russians are humankind
attacking, attacking, attacking
all life on earth out of history and insatiable greed.

“Blood is flowing,
spreading across the floors,” Yevtushenko wrote.
“And I, myself,
am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.”

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Juniper’s Dragon in the Year of the Dragon is now available

Dragons in the deep earth beneath the wild landscape of New Mexico’s El Malpais wilderness, a thought-provoking adventure, stories of young love and madness and the undying love between a man and his troubled wife, the strange and beautiful witch of the El Malpais, and the violence inherent in our troubled 21st century are all present in a tale as powerful as one of Ursula LeGuin’s fantasy novels. A companion novel to the epic poem, The Weirding Storm, a Dragon Epic published by Bennison Books.

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Juniper’s Dragon is almost here — Year of the Dragon

My newest novel, Juniper’s Dragon, arrived as a physical proof this afternoon! I’m excited.

Dragons in the 21st century? In the caverns below the El Malpais wilderness in New Mexico? Juniper, fleeing the beautiful and terrifying witch of the El Malpais scrambles into a blowhole in the wilderness where he lives with his father. There he discovers dragons, and his life begins to change.

Part wild adventure, part love story, part coming of age story in the land where Navajo and Anglos live, dragons suddenly discover they are creature of the earth and sky and not just of deep caverns and an underground river.

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Dying and the Mystery of Absence

When Ethel Mortenson Davis and I created this site while we lived in New Mexico, we did so partially to make sure that we had a creative place to not only showcase some of the poetry and art we have both produced throughout our lifetimes but to also honor our son, Kevin Michael Davis. Kevin had died in Poughkeepsie New York where he was a web designer for Vassar College after a short struggled against aggressive cancer. While we put this blog together, we were both still in the throes of grieving and trying to deal with Kevin’s loss.

The new anthology is available at https://www.amazon.com/Leaving-anthology-poetry-mystery-absence/dp/1999740831/ref=sr_1_1?crid=S3YX5MBBHIVN&keywords=Leaving+Bennison+Books&qid=1699623562&s=books&sprefix=leaving+bennison+books%2Cstripbooks%2C104&sr=1-1

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The Prophecy of the Wolf Published!

My new novel, The Prophecy of the Wolf, has been released by All Things That Matter Press! It’s available now at Otherworlds Books and More and Novel Bay in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin and Yardstick Books in Algoma, Wisconsin. Readers can also order it from almost any online venue.

I spent three years working on a historical novel that is set in the mid to late 1600s on the Door Peninsula and Washington Island as famous French priests and fur traders started to seriously impact the traditional lives of Native Americans. The Neshnabek, or Potawatomi Tribe, are at the heart of the story as Ogima tells about how he, as a young man, became embroiled in the affairs of Quapaw, a powerful waubeno that has had a vision given to him by a storyteller wolf. Quapaw, because of his shaman visions, starts to try to keep the Neshnabek from falling prey to the fur trade, the beguilement of French trade, and power of Christian conversion. The novel explores the largest themes possible as event follows event, eventually reaching a crescendo that has become a distant legend even in our time. In the process the lifestyle and beauty of Neshnabek civilization and culture becomes a beautiful backdrop to the action.

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In the Aftermath

For World Poetry Day, from my novel, Prophecy of the Wolf, close to being released

Thomas Davis

The woman wrapped the child against the cold
And walked into the forest where the glow
Of moonlight pooled a deeply shadowed gold
Beneath the trees on softly shining snow.

She gathered wood, the baby on her back,
And built a fire, its warmth a dancing light
Upon a great flat rock protruding black
Into the lake’s infinity of white.

Then, in the dark, sat, death-still, beside
The flames, the baby in her arms, the smear
Of stars above their heads a radiant tide
Of silence singing to the ebbing year.

At last, her voice a permutation slipped
Into the night, she started chanting words
Born deep in spirit as the blackened crypt
Of waters stirred beneath lake ice, and birds,

As black as mourning shrouds, began to fly,
The forest stirring like the waters, wind
A whisper as the baby voiced a tiny cry
And shadowy trees began to sway and bend.

The woman got up on her feet, her voice
As silver as the moon, and sang as deer
Began to bound onto the ice:  “Rejoice,”
The woman sang, and as she sang the fear

Felt during hours of pain-filled, labored birth
Dissolved into the biting wind and light
That danced with deer upon the lake, the earth
And living integrated with the night.

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Sophia and Erik’s Wedding

At our granddaughter Sophia's wedding, Ethel wrote one poem for the wedding that she read out loud during the ceremony.  A friend of our daughter Mary read another poem by Ethel that was written 55 years ago during our courtship.  Then, at the reception I sat down and wrote a poem commemorating the event as the mariachi band played and people people danced as sunlight streamed out of the clouds for the first time all day.

The poem Ethel read:

Hope

Dear Grandmother,

today your great, great granddaughter
is getting married
to a fine, young man,
and they promise their love
is greater than their parents’ love
and their grandparents’ love.
They promise they will be happier
than their parents were
or their grandparents.
And they promise their children
will be loved more than all 
the ancestors put together.

Dear Grandmother,

this is their promise,
and this is our hope.


The poem from 55 years ago:

How Could I Know?

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.


The poem I wrote:

At My Granddaughter’s Wedding

First the bald eagle above the bay,
water dancing light on lines of waves,
then cranes in the greening field,
Babies and parents communicating 
with legs, moving necks, and wings in the sun,
and then the rumor of storms
brewing black clouds in the north,
stirring with big winds.

But then, after a night of worry,
the ceremony was to be outside,
the wedding day came, cloudy,
a fifty percent chance of rain.

But then the rain didn’t come.
Wedding roses lined paths
to the small wooden church.
Then, the words as ancient 
as human spirits, were spoken
by the bride and groom,

and then the sun came out
as the mariachi celebration began,
as clouds thinned,
and my granddaughter and her love danced
as music rose into an evening sky—

and love was everywhere.
Everywhere.

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In Memory of Richard “Snuffy” Dodge

Poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis, essay by Tom Davis

Reserved

Look at

the cedar grove

near the edge

of the lake.

It looks like

a bed between

tree trunks.

Soon I must

take my rest

on the soft coverlet

of leaf litter,

a place reserved

in my name.

I woke up this morning, after a somewhat restless night, realizing what a blessed life I have been privileged to live.  Richard, Snuffy, Dodge, a Menominee code talker who helped Navajo code talkers get from place to place in China and Southeast Asia during World War II as they found Japanese forces, traveled behind the blanket earlier this week, and his passing at the age of 94 has caused me to think about how many truly extraordinary people I have known.

I met Snuffy in 1973 when I was working as an English and History teacher at the Menominee County Community School on the Menominee Reservation in Wisconsin.  One of the first of the Indian controlled schools that later morphed into the Bureau of Indian Education’s contract school system that funded tribes to operate their own school systems, the Community School was a seat-of-the-pants effort that I suspect both Snuffy and his highly intelligent wife Paula did not fully see as the history of Menominee education.

When the Menominee County Education Committee, however, led the effort to create the Indian controlled school district that came to be known as the Menominee Indian School District, Snuffy got elected to the first school board.  Although I wanted to work at the new high school, the Superintendent, whom I had helped get the job, did not hire me.  Ironically, that led to me getting to know Snuffy better than would have happened otherwise and helped enrich my life.

The job I got after failing to get a teaching job at the school district was as the first Director of Planning for the Menominee Restoration Committee that was restoring the Menominee Nation after the disastrous termination policy that had decimated the tribe’s fortunes during the Dwight Eisenhower presidency.  In that job I started working extensively with Gordon Burr, a Stockbridge tribal member, who was also working closely on Comprehensive Education and Training Act (CETA) efforts with all of Wisconsin’s thirteen tribes.  Snuffy was also working closely with Gordon, and the three of us started an effort to help first Menominee, then all of Wisconsin’s tribes, for the next several years.

After a year working for Menominee, I joined Gordon to work at the Great Lakes Indian Tribal Consortium, and Snuffy, I, and Gordon raised millions of dollars in CETA, Economic Development Administration (EDA), State of Wisconsin, and Community Development Block Grant (CDBG) funds for tribal projects.  We traveled together a lot, working at the state legislature in Madison, developing projects on various Reservations, and writing what seemed to be an endless stream of proposals.  The truth is that Snuffy and Gordon were both gifts to Wisconsin Indian tribes during those years, and the three of us, and our families, developed close bonds.

The stories I can tell about Snuffy are pretty close to endless.  One of my favorites was when he was in Chicago working with the Regional EDA Administrator who was also named Dick Dodge.  He was in EDA Dick Dodge’s office talking to him about a project he and I were working on when the administrator got an “urgent phone call.”  With Snuffy sitting in his office, the EDA Dick Dodge’s eyes got really big, and he bellowed out, “They did what?”  It turned out that a Michigan tribe had developed a hog operation as an economic development project, and one of the project’s administrators had got the idea to fund a tribal feast, and he’d managed to provide the breeding hogs for the feast, destroying the project.

If that wasn’t an unfortunate time for a representative trying to get funding for an economic development project for a Wisconsin tribe to be in that office, I don’t know what unfortunate means, but Snuffy always knew how to smile and laugh and get people off their high horse into a serious negotiation, and the upshot of the story is that we got that grant funded.  EDA Dick Dodge was not pleased, but he was working with Snuffy Dick Dodge, and surely that meant that things would work out okay.

The most important project Snuffy and I tackled together was when the Ho Chunk in Lake Delton wanted to take control over the Stand Rock Indian Ceremonial where they had performed for decades so that they could get the economic benefit for what they had made possible.  We worked with Dells Boat Company and other business leaders in the Dells, as well as the American Legion that had originally started up the Ceremonial, and helped to make that happen.  The Neesh-La Indian Development Corporation that we worked with Alberta Day, the President of the Corporation, and other Ho Chunk people from the area to create, is still operating successfully today.

There are simply so many stories.  During our travels Snuffy would always want to eat out at higher class restaurants where he could have a glass of Chablis, and Gordon preferred down-home cooking at what were in essence greasy spoons.  The battles always put me in the middle, although neither one of them ever got angry at the other one or me when they didn’t get their way that day.  Snuffy always read the Wall Street Journal every day, stopping at a news stand when we were on the road so that he could check on the stock he was invested in and check up on the news of the day.  These are the small things that loom big when you look back and contemplate what has long passed by.

One of the most memorable times of my life was when Ethel, Paula, Snuffy, and I took a trip to Atlanta, GA one year over the Smoky Mountains, enjoying each other’s company.  We were doing the Neesh-La project at that point and trying to learn more about the tourist industry and how it worked.  We learned a lot at the convention we attended, but we enriched all our lives by making a magical trip together.

No short essay is going to illuminate any extraordinary individual’s life, of course.  Richard Snuffy Dodge was a delightful human being who was complex and intelligent and forward-thinking all at the same time.  When Ethel and I visited him and Paula for the last time, we talked about the past, and he gave me a long hug, even though he was already having trouble eating at that point, as we left their house in Keshena for our home in Sturgeon Bay.

As I said, this morning I woke up after a troubled night and realized just how blessed a life I have lived with Ethel, my children, and all the extraordinary people I have been privileged to have known.

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Filed under Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis