Only Skilled Workers Allowed Here

Heil, Trump! Does That Mean
He’s Leaving?

-by Bill Watkins 8/2/2017

Trump Liberty

Stephen Miller trumped out his boss’s view of immigration today.

It reminded me of Schindler’s List.  I apologize, but I get a lot of my news and history through movies, what can I say I’m from Los Angeles.

“Skilled workers” got to live at the concentration camps, while artists and teachers were killed.

“People are people,” all valuable in some way, under God—is not a value of Donald Trump.

https://www.youtube.com/edit?o=U&video_id=sjLm9X5hyB4

Mercy, love, understanding and compassion are not high on Trump’s list.

Ironic, in that Donald Trump is totally unqualified to be in political office—himself a great example of an unskilled worker.

I would make Trump the poster of change, of a needed amendment to the U.S. Constitution to add some job requirements for public office.

Now, we age discriminate, saying that thirty-five years of age somehow makes someone wise enough to be President, then of course, they cannot offer service to our country if they were born in another one.

We need a requirement like:

1. Must have served at least two years in Politics, public service, foreign service.

*****

Trump: you are an unskilled worker at your current job.  Go back to Germany.

Government Health Care is Unconstitutional

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-by Bill Watkins 7/29/2017

Native American Health3

I am Christian Scientist regarding health.

A prayer healer.  And it works.  And it saves me money.

Religion plays into my definition of Health.  What about you?

If you would deny God, or a divine involvement in our health, could you at least concede that there are millions of Americans who associate religion and faith with healthy living?

Then government should not dip its hands in non-emergency healthcare.

From the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…

From Google:

The First Amendment not only allows citizens the freedom to practice any religion of their choice, but also prevents the government from officially recognizing or favoring any religion.

Our national and congressional obsession with WESTERN MEDICINE’S VERSION OF HEALTH CARE is an overwhelming example of our government’s officially recognizing or favoring the religion some cling to of Western Science and “medical practice.

I am against it.  I do not want it.  I do not believe in the White Coats; believe instead in prayer, meditation.  I will use a modern bandage, and keep wounds clean—common sense practice.

I will ice a swollen or sore muscle, harkening back to my college volleyball days and awareness of certain therapeutic techniques.

I do not need your western “health care.”  I do not want it.  And it is wrong to use public tax money to fund such a controversial and religion-related matter.

*******

Let’s get back to Roads, Bridges, and National Security.  (Not covert aggression and missiles, but Defense.)

Why Not Livingston?

To the City Commission

-by Bill Watkins 7/20/2017

*****

A revolution must start somewhere.

Cars have gone nuts.  Are overrated, and so-so if not totally bad for the soul.

Stop investing so much into them.  Into burning earth and going fast.

Slow down, walk.

Task your police to WALK.  Establish friendly foot patrols.  Note the number of Counts of Littering Code violation.

Budget the end of littering in your town, then broadcast to other American towns how you did it.

5000 bucks is a poor figure for sidewalks, James—and Michael, the “businesses are responsible for their sidewalks” thing is NOT WORKING.

Sidewalks are crumbling, weeds are collecting cigarette butts and other trash.

I’m not for big government, but let’s have SOME government to step in when Care and Example is needed.

Come out of the bars, rethink any imbibing of flammable liquids, inhaling smoke on purpose, WALK the sidewalks with a notepad and camera and add “Clean City” to Livingston’s repertoire of fun facts.

—Love, Bill
406-210-3671
http://www.travelingpoet.net

My Worthless High School Diploma

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-by Bill Watkins 7/16/2017

Diploma

I graduated a full-blown alcoholic from Polytechnic School in Pasadena, California in 1990.

A law-breaking, underaged drinker of alcohol, middle fingers in the air, a part of a gang of dudes called The Assholes.

I got good grades, was heading to a University of California school to play Division One volleyball, where I had also excelled at Poly.

*******

But I had not learned how to live life in a legal, productive, honest and honorable way.

I was a liar—mostly about how much a I drank.

We had all been caught on a ninth grade ski trip, one of the kids puking all over a couch in the lodge lobby, outing all of us for “partying” with flammable liquids that night.

Alcoholics, be they fifteen or forty years old, are clever with admissions, and find ways to skate by certain hassles.

We got by that situation with a slap on the wrist, but no one thought to call the police or to get the kids to Alcoholics Anonymous ASAP.

My dream for Poly and all schools is that they put LAW into their Credo’s and/or mission statements. DO NOT GRADUATE KIDS OR YOUNG ADULTS WHO ARE NOT COMMITTED TO THE LAW.

I believe it more important to prepare children for LIFE than for overrated college.

In fact, when I was coming up, college was a False god—

“If you just get into the right college….”

The great solve-everything plan. #Hogwash.

There’s a lot more to LIFE than college, and as long as children must by law go to school, WE NEED LAW INSTRUCTION AND DEDICATION IN SCHOOL.

“But they are supposed to get that in the home!”

But they are not. So schools:

Put law into the curriculum today; I am available to teach it, as Law has become a passion in my sober life.

Yes, I am now fifteen years sober, in love with the law, and dedicated to telling the truth.

Freedom awaits, and a real God, oh yeah and Heaven—

Which may just be John Wooden’s peace of mind.

Is it Too late to Kill the Railroad?

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-by Bill Watkins 6/23/2017

Noise Pollution1

Does anyone else want to know what it was like around here without the railroad?

The noise, the metal, nature neglected, wildlife running for the hills.

I like homes and convenience, going to the market and store for goods, but would be willing to have less of it in return for more quiet.

Killing the railroad might go too far, so how about just slowing it down a bit.

If we slowed it down, the horns could be quieter—horns that should be tested anyway for the damage that could be done to pedestrian ears.

Pedestrians…

Jesus walked, Buddha, Gandhi and MLK getting lots of mileage and social change with their feet, so what about you?

Burning earth and going fast?

I asked a group of kids in Livingston the other day what their passions were, and top among them was dirt motorbiking.  #Loud #Fast #Dangerous.

The Jews in the desert attempted to Please the LORD in all that they did.  When Moses went up the hill, they screwed up and started worshipping false gods, got drunk.

But when it was good, they did everything to Please God.  Burning incense, having bar-b-ques, David playing music, singing and dancing—

All to Please God.

God does not like loud trains, motorbikes that scare wildlife and sleeping children.

Be quiet, America!!!!

First Impressions of Livingston

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-by Bill Watkins 6/18/2017

Livingston2 -- Work Walk Collage

Mixed bag, like anywhere in this savage land most call “America.”

You get by the roads, cement, asphalt and tracks—the cigarette butts and wayside bars to marvel at Mountains.  Wind.  Sky everywhere, and clouds that at once threaten and entertain, swirling at play,

Soccer fields with snow-capped mountain backdrops, old west saloon facades selling thrift and high quality art.

Book stores and hip; music abound.

Bad news travels slow until artists collide; a moment with talented Montana master, Sheila Hrasky shows me Picasso colored West, but I learn of tragedy.

Last year children ended their lives in suicide, so now I read—an adult or two drowning as well.

Shades of Los Angeles and a former life I led in Pasadena, California seems relevant.  I survived two overdoses and years of suicidal depression to come here—15 years sober full of hope, writings, dance and song!!!!!

The Devil is gone from my life, Coach Longfellow teaching me to be a hero in the strife!

Alcohol is a cold friend.  A backstabber up and down Main, Park or wherever deceived.

Walk out of the bar, turn from evil, and feel your pain…

(There is no joy without it, Montana)

The Search for Meaning

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Ancient Sins, Amends
and Justice

-by Bill Watkins 6/5/2017

Livingston2 -- Work Walk

LORD, help me communicate your message.

Amen.

***

I have left Los Angeles, California in search of meaning, poetic justice—taking my sins east someday across the ocean back to Europe.

I have decided to pass through beautiful Livingston, Montana for a year or two to gain a different experience, to become a man, prepare for England’s colder weather, and to get some financial standing.

410 years ago three Watkins brothers arrived in the land we now call Virginia—a land that was inhabited by a great people.  We, the English, named it what we wanted and called it ours.

We measured ourselves against the natives by skin color, dress and military weapons—saw an “advantage,” sought to conquer.

Our sins are vast.  Sins of judgment, murder, selfishness, ingratitude, ignorance, and self-righteousness.  Sure, we were chased there by religious wars, oppressive social structures and monarchy.

But also greed.  Vanity; the desire for fame and glory, riches—gold and spices.

A name to place in history as the man or men who discovered a new land or route around the world.

Notice no mention of “God” yet.  While our explorers spoke of “mission” and Bible and bringing God to the New World, our actions were GodLESS.

We lived by the gun and sword.  Died by it.  So many of us throughout history to now just on that Jesus-mentioned “wide path to destruction.”

Lao Tzu said “You cannot change the world.  It cannot be done.”

So why write a piece like this?  Why leave Los Angeles?

Why come to Montana, en route to Wales, United Kingdom—home of the Watkins family that stayed in Europe?

Meaning.

For this poet, meaning… For the world, this poet sets out with the gift God directly gave to drive truth into the wide path.

To split that path, and light the trail back to Heaven’s narrow road.

If I believe through fast and prayer that I may move a mountain from there to here, it shall be done.

If I know CIA killed JFK, then covered up the crime—I shall say so, demand truth, and move on to other dark chapters, light them with alacrity.

If I am sure that we owe amends to anyone related to American SLAVES, I shall write that fact—and push us to truth, action and needed reparations.

Hurting others is hurting ourselves.  Killing off Native America, is killing off Nature in this land.

We must stop, restore land to the Native peoples “won” through bloodshed, threats and broken promises—bring Karma back to the land…

The Great Spirit, often forgotten from big cities to the hearts of reservations—sad with despondent reservation, alcohol, depression—will and must rise again.

The Great Spirit will rise when the Native American people rise again, and the land will prosper.

A Third Political party will emerge.  One of peace and love for Mother Earth.

But first I must remove myself back to England.  Back across the sea, and take our sins with me.

I do so for the Cherokee.  For the Sioux.  For the Crow, the Blackfoot, the Tongva out west—all the tribes, together must rise as I leave with God’s spirit East from here to the land of the Celts.

I will take back, finally, the land’s Gold:

Native American Wisdom and Love for Land.

Europe will thrive when I bring this gold back to them.

And meaning will come to me, a life poetic that gave up comfort to honor God.

Message to American Youth

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Through Travelers’ Eyes

-by Bill Watkins 5/31/2017

ForTheGirls2

By “American” let us refer to first Americans first: The Native peoples who first populated this land.

Pause to consider your role, your peoples’ role in respecting this land, or cursing it with some version of a European gold rush.

***

Today I traveled south from Tongva Nation’s “Los Angeles” by train to a beach of my youth:

St. Malo community in South Oceanside, California.

St. Malo

There is a place in dreams, not far from the heart
of sand and song, the surf it moves us from
Pasadena to Oceanside in weekend shifts.

The soul searches and finds adventure of the
water kind, up and down motion, a fishline
bobbing for fish, rock-collecting on the shore.

It’s all free once there, hard work for some built houses,
others invited guests, the style French inspired
from a walled Brittany gem, quaint and far away

Despite the easy hour and fifteen it can take
to reach Cassidy and a break from hustling bustle.
We’ve arrived.  This is St. Malo!

Unload the car, get food ready, I’ll take this bed,
I can hear the waves, see them almost, let’s
sleep and dream of tomorrow’s activities…

Some sleep in the sun, some not until cooled by
saltwater, others volleyball, the tennis a perennial
favorite even paddle-tennis.  Kids learn to not do

is as fun as doing, the key to paradise always being
freedom.  Add to that a peace of mind, go further
or stop right there at an easy smile.

Hard to come by for many, but once there so easy.
Some listen to music, dance at the cabana, will
a romance start?  Only if prayer can yield honesty—

Some are not ready, but all just where we’re supposed
to be.  The sun comes up on the rich and poor, leveling
us all as human, gratitude the most sane of emotions
weaving like water on water proof cloth until the cracks
in us are found; made whole, we fill that hole we made
making a fort by the water.  Castles made of sand

“melt into the sea, eventually” said the poet, Jimi,
which is fine making room for more to be made, future
trips down the five, stumbling and bumbling down
the PCH Hill Street, a rainbow donut in the morning
steaks and s’mores reading favorite poets singing
songs at night, together we find life warm and worth
the mundane.

Frost and I settle gathering no moss rolling down
a zillionth poetic excursion away from life to find
its keys and truth:  Hope if in the Pacific be, may
it continue to rest with us on asphalt carrying beach
chairs, towels and umbrellas to the sandy break,

The quaint French scene in Socal blue, red and green,
the gold of sand at sun-up and down reminding us
it’s okay just to be….

St. Malo Image

Divorce is the great nightmare, the great deception next to “alcohol” consumption cooked up by the devil as yet another gold rush.

Deny it.  Refute it, best yet:  Rebuke it all in favor of One love, One God, and true Law.

Divorce

The disease of more grabs us late
at night, convincing us there’s
something better out there than what we have.

Women and men chase their tails
and other men and women around
in circles risking jail cells, nut houses
and all that rhymes with misery and
broken dreams.

Sexual security is on the line, “the right
to choose” so powerful and inviting
so why can’t I go back on a promise?

Abuse is another thing.  Child safety
and your own as we leave in quiet
darkness before he comes back home.

“I’ve had it with her binges,” he says.
Conveniently, he’s met somebody else.

The grass is never greener on the other
side, just vulnerable to the elements
as much as any other grass.

Children bearing the brunt, finding
ways to understand including drugs and
alcohol, the suicidal thoughts streaming
in with other questions about my existence.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be.  I was not
meant to be.”  They left me….

Ha!!!  I cringe when they ask on buses or
trains, “Where are your parents?”  Maybe I’ll
make up a story that they live happily
in my heart.  I’ll make it true by decorating
the grave of my alcoholic imagination until
revived, I walk out of the plot to
haunt poetry readings with humor and
good cheer, because…

Because I am proof that Mom and Dad were
here, and in me they were never divorced,
cannot be.

“Man cannot separate what God has bound
together.”  My parents are not divorced, and so
when asked for now on about the status
of my earthly creators, I shall say with that
Frostian sigh:  “Married these fifty years.  Struggling
to see it in a long imagist vacation into ‘Mo Betta’, the
disease of more and other people, places and things.
Festus and Bacchus, the Devil’s black hole.”

For ages hence I’ll say: here I am

***

“Man cannot separate what God has bound,”

So man or woman up, hear the sound, this your lucky day to turn that upside down frown twice up and down, and be the heart that thrills the child and the clown.

You cannot please two masters, worship two gods, and once you marry:

You have become one with another under God, which cannot be changed.  So choose wisely, pray to God, and stick.

Alcohol is a lie.  Find out what it is before you are deceived into another sad sip of toxic, flammable, volatile poison.

Feel.

Feel pain.  Feel joy.  Feel discomfort—give all your feelings to a Higher Power, and live a great day!  Make a schedule for it, God at the top, Sleep at the bottom, and fill in the gaps with love and enterprise.

Rebuke alcohol.  Sin.  Wrong.

Welcome love and light, marry the Wife or husband of your youth, be true to the first crush, be true to love always, and as I told a couple travelers today:

“Let’s stop blowing it.”

***

Sydney and Lauren were their names, and they were the prettiest girls I have ever seen on a bus.  I lost my footing a moment when I saw them, they were so out of place.

Angels is going too far; of course I first placed them as “dancers.”  A pro dance team on holiday, taking in the sights.

Then I noticed their extensive backpacks, telling me they were probably a couple German or Czech travelers.

I had to find out, so posed some questions rapidly, choosing English first.

Turned out they were masters of the language, being American, and being recent college graduates heading out from home to a bus, to a train, to LAX airport to catch a flight to London and a five-week European adventure!

I was in shock how pretty they were.

I still am.

When you grew up like me, drunk, stupid, hoping a sports achievement would attract a woman someday, or some drunk advance… Then you wake up, get sober—discover the glory of God and beautiful women trumping any escapes or forays into useless matters like “college” or Beer.

You stop there, though, with these two because they could be your daughters.

They were born the year I graduated from college, in 1994, and so I write this message—to them and to all young people, in the hope of saying something that might better you.

Do better than me!!

Don’t drink flammable liquids, pray to God, and tell the truth.

Admit to God, yourselves and the mate of your youth the love you feel.  Be innocent.  Express fully what you feel.

Sigmund Freud said the alcoholic has an inability to express love.

Don’t be that guy or gal.  Stop blowing it and tell your first love how you feel.

Apologize to the guy you flaked on, the girl who waited for you, but you got drunk.

Be who you are.  Simplify life, and set out not at the beckon call of the loudest caller—often the devil calling you to bummers and destruction.

Wait.  Travel.  Hike.  Seek ye and ye shall find.  Ask and receive; God, Higher Power, and Heaven itself await the truly good life lived one day at a time, God on top, sleep on the bottom—

Between the lines we live our amazing dreams…

Be.

Crime is Crime. Not Religious

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-by Bill Watkins 5/23/2017

In Alcoholics Anonymous I heard the term HALT for the first time, referring to “Hungry Angry Lonely Tired,” as in: beware not to get bogged down by those feelings.  To do so, would be to risk a relapse into alcohol consumption.

It is my opinion that all crime, no matter how law enforcement labels it, comes from five sources: the four in HALT, and the devil himself.

Crime that hurts people, is not a rational thing usually, so cannot be explained or fought with rational tools.

A bomb goes off and people die.  A tragedy happens, and the many stages of grief and loss begin, one of them being anger.  With that anger, a desire for revenge for many.

Revenge is also an irrational response, and does not rationally stop the behavior that created the anger that leads to revenge.

The big missing buzz word so far is love.  Love is the irrational response to all matters good and bad—hard to give when faced with bad, like crime, but of endless value.  Forgiveness is love’s proud and proper neighbor, ready to enhance and spread like misnamed “terrorism.”

Crime is crime.  Call it “terror.”  Call it an unfortunate response to Hunger, Anger, Loneliness and/or fatigue.  The devil spinning evil, like a hurricane hitting the southeast of America, a bad storm—a necessary flip of the coin, yin to yang, the opposite of goodness, love and peace.

Lao Tzu said “we cannot change the world. It cannot be done,” and I agree, but…  It is ours to try.

Let’s try with love not hate, with forgiveness not revenge, with hugs not bombs.