The Voice of God


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Who’s listening?

There is a pulse and a spirit
under and over our lives,
giving us sanity, clues, natural
grooves to those who are
willing to stop, walk up the backs
of crevasses and ravines, nature’s
cherry, tall mountains yielding
peace in the mind of the sound.

We come out fighting—sperm to
egg, out Mom at whatever pace
gets results.

We have to develop sixth senses,
cosmic attachments to energy
there when we ask.  I asked
for poetry, travelling the song
that is Mexico.

I don’t like music anymore,
because it gets in the way of
God’s voice.


Who’s connecting today?  Where
is the medicine man, the prophet
designated to go up the hill and
ask for God’s blessing.

A priest denying himself sex?

Folks who meditate in buildings?

Who knows what the earth wants,
can report the facts to others,
pick up an instrument to play again
only when we’re on the same
page, one pulse attempting to please
the LORD, like the Jews in the desert.

Burn the incense, retreat back to
the dirt and calm—

God forgive our running around
with cotton in our ears, so eager
and ready to spout what others

We “Edged Out God” the acronym
for ego used today.


Give us peace, God, and with it
your voice to teach us the way!


Forgiving Circumcision


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I was a few days old, a bundle
of skin and effort so feed me!


Put out the welcome mat, I’ve
been prepping in a little bubble,

I’m psyched to be out, show me
the way?

They are strapping me down, this
is uncomfortable.  I am powerless,
I can feel this but barely see.

I have no words.  I cry.  I let them
know I am against this course of

Someone is rubbing a sensitive
area, but I trust them.  This will
be okay.  Wait


Let the little children come to me,
and do not hinder them, for the
kingdom of God belongs to such
as these.  (Mk 10:14)

The pain of hindering.  The scream
is from a shocked God, the
creator of all things offended at
the attack.

Take heed that ye despise not one
of these little ones; for I say unto you,
That in heaven their angels do always
behold the face of my Father which
is in heaven.  (Mt 18:10)

What’s better, an old quote?  The
gospel?  The bible, or ancient thought
or nature itself?  What is natural?
What is rational?

Did God screw up?  Did evolution
mess up?

Is it more plausible that bible stories
are man or God-made?  Could men
or women be inspired by God or
higher power to write, but is it
possible we have injected our
fallibility and perversions in these
stories?  Is alcohol—a flammable
liquid—good to ever “drink?”

The story of Abraham talking to
the LORD, where the LORD demands
male mutilation to seal a vow…

Is it sound?  Sensible?  Rational?

Should the Jew have his or her
mutilation, but stay away from our
health facilities—those who respect
the human rights of all babies?

Don’t hurt children.  Don’t abuse
children.  Guard them in the Christian
way, if you be Christian.  Intervene
for them, if you care and are in
touch with the feelings of infant

Protect children!  Join the angels
that bear God’s face, and keep them
from harm!


I myself am a victim of child abuse.

No one set out to harm.  No one
intended malice!

The Devil is an amazingly subtle, skillful
foe—who can Trojan horse into your
most sacred rooms and infect our
generations, our loves, our passions,
our children.

The only way clear is through
enlightenment and care—the kind that
comes through trying, showing up
and grace.

Wide is the path to destruction,
and many are on it.

Forgive them Father, they know not
what they do.

Well, I think it’s time to tell them
what they’re doing.

Do we need baby whisperers to
interpret their screams?

We all know what is right in our
minds and hearts, as we connect
with Creation—

breathe deeply and meditate on
God and right.  Read the Tao Te
Ching, go with the flow, do less
and let the next baby born be
a baby.

Keep them out of your religion, until
they want to be in it—or not—at
a later date,

Let’s stop the abuse before too
late, God forgive circumcision!

We forgive the writers of the Bible
and others through history, who
have proposed it.

I will convert fully to the Native
American Great Spirit, before
I bow to a God that would
advocate hurting little ones.

I do not know.  Truth comes to me
in dreams, and I write it all down,
the gift I was given perhaps to make
up for foreskin lost.  Perhaps
I’ll take my pain to the stage, make
some jokes, plant my Forgiveness
Tree in the next baby we save.

Truth, with or without words, and
Nature’s perfection places us in
eternity the moment we listen
to the real voice of God not in

I’ll Miss the Winter


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Before the change, you wait
until lo and behold: it’s too late,
the wind and the spin of the planet
beginning again around the sun,

ninety to a hundred times seen
per blessed life, Hebrew kings
and justice is still right.  Pinch here,
pinch there, we’re different

I’ll miss her.

As long as I’m alive I’ll live July
missing winter.

Something dreams and I’m stronger.
We get up in peace, as long as we
yesterday struggled and sacrificed
enough, took our shopping money

to the street, clothed a man on his
last leg, wet pants—you said and did
the right things, changed him with
a tear as he said three cheers.

You walk at limp pace with the suffering
masses, being sure you’re not “ahead
of your skis,” the advanced run wisping
by trees toward Heaven.

There are no signs for it, minus the
aforementioned dreams.  And they do
not come remembered until you commit
to truth, take off your own threads,

give your life to powers unseen, see
your part in the general flow, put an
extra coat on—hoping for one more
splash in the song that is today.

I’ll miss the winter, when long
from it I wet my own sheets dreaming
of she’s and he’s who like me, admit
they can’t do it alone.

I’ll miss the winter, when in the Truth
of now I shine a light on age, rocks
sagging off a sheened rebel coast,
Scotland crags, Welsh hills awaiting

As we stand to holler one more time.

I’ll miss the winter, as I shout my
colors into the wind, national flags
sagging likewise around children and
infants raped by ignorant knives

as mother cries, father and so many
on the wide path of “I don’t know”
and “Whatever they say—”

We abdicate our will to white coats
until grace appears at point of death.

We see light at last, breathe and smile.
Dealt this, we cope, try to accept the
wrongs but call them out so the next
little boy and girl tastes opportunity
and freedom sooner you hope—

than you did.

Sighs breed change as winds their
leaves returning—yell out “God”
or something like it now.  Grab
today!  The hope, stay warm at night
say good night and pray.

It’s getting warm again, as you knew it
would.  You shake it off, stare at the

“Until next year,” you think of things
only God should.

Around the Sun Again


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Happy New Year, much like
the old cheer—

games played by humans and other
beings to remember now against
the hurling, tumbling dreams and
action of the ages;

actors, dancers and sages passing
away in body but leaving spirit
soaring, the steady drum of the awake
seeking truth with proof that cannot
be faked, no matter the tone and
tenor of presidential tweets.

God forgive our missteps, and guide
us onto the straight and narrow path
that defines “respect,” universal codes
sought instead of deified leadership
posts, politicians giving money back,

realizing the community needs workers
not suits, keep dreaming on—this could
be a call to you for more.

But if addicted to the clichés that made
us, the alcohol posing as “drink,” colorless,
flammable and volatile as we slurp the
toxic clink,

studying harder we drink instead of
God and life, water less strife, the
grape juice better than whine, the
ripe tasted better than moldy on the
cursed vine, so we walk away as the
band plays—

Happy New Year!!

A song with cheer, a moment we raise,
the only true melody one of praise,
Higher Powers are at work, supplication
keeping me from lonely worries about
sad mortality, the end in a wink of
this life is not what we think—
the native way to discard the concrete
and the fray,

be calm, take off your shoes and see yourself
a part of the earth we burn too much.

Sink your toes in the sand, eternity
is in oneness with the grains and time,
laugh at our journey ‘round the sun
again, roman calendars marking it
the first step of 365 logged here
and somewhere else…

That place or thing that runs all
things, places markers in energy
for which we strive.

We celebrate another trip around
the sun made, this spaceship earth
calling all to pride, think of it
and others to high levels and never
think yourself apart but instead a
special part.

Eternity is in forgetting the self,
seeing ourselves as one with All.
Be not deceived into isolation’s
worry and regret, go out and
leave a prayer in their place, be
free in your signature, writing your
name in this vast space.

Happy New Year!

Be the smile we occasionally offer
on the whole of time’s face.

Wind Chime


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The best spaceship is Earth,
moving and singing through space,
the wind whipping through
bringing tears to our collective face.

God is not myth, it’s concept;
look it up, Google’s okay, a red
book from the past defining all
words as words, inventions—

we made them, including these…
up.  We did not make the waterfall,
the rocks, the snow—interventions,
song-like, beauty with or without…


Wind chime, lost in souls out of
time, God is the good, orderly
direction needed to stay on the ground;
without supplication, we fly

un-humbly off the cliff, where strong
physical facts land, bloody and
definite.  There is a power greater
than ourselves, this is a fact,

leaving the atheist looking foolish,
mad at the hatter for not making
us warm enough shoes.  Peace, with
or without the letters is a feeling

much in line with the calm after rain,
the end of pain a mixture of symbols
that collide with other words describing
bodily fluids and explosions of thought;

neurons that if not written, would
surely be forgot, time is ticking as
the wind chimes nothing, one, two—
the Earth has again moved.

So predictable until we swing and miss;
we thought we knew so much,
then looked into a baby’s eyes,
a revolving door of life making the

annual turn around the sun so unique
and amazing this 2018 that poets are
on the move too—so much so, we
chime our own winds, try to make up

some new words, ways to say them
so me and the Earth can again be friends.

We Can Rise


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The seed wars to become a flower.
Democracy lies—calls people power.

Songs rhyme, the words nothing compared
to truth itself.  You pause, pray,

Give strength clean away, turn it over
We can rise.  With a god of your own
understanding, we can rise, the mystic
reason for the four seasons calling
in the night, dreams the funeral of
ignorance, chopping off parts of a penis

while our infants cry; listening to the
devil, the easy way, “What did the white
coat say?”


Great native spirit, aboriginal ESP, a poem
scribbled into sand by Vikings or Celtic
sages, Romeo and Juliet giving English
reasons like seeds to sprout and spread
like a wildfire of color across a northern
California coastal hill.

“God” is the name itself for some, the
goal heaven, and for it we rise.

We can overcome the worst, from ashes
bloom again, seven deadly sins trying to
burrow into holes made before we make
first decisions.

The cliff upon which we walk is forged
to challenge, the echoes of forefathers
and foreskins causing blood to pour out
in lines, the prayer a call of the realistic,

the humble are true when they admit they
cannot without divine help reach the
golden crest that is Peace of Mind.

We can rise.

But we must first admit we fell, ring the
bell that we’ve been to hell.

God, forgive us, let’s mobilize with every
breath to make amends for friends like
wind forgotten with circumcised sips
of flammable liquid passed down from
generation to generation,

Friends in armor, friends who gave
us warmth and farming techniques,
helped us survive winters before
we cast them out at gunpoint, claimed
to found a nation already here.

I’m a white man living on stolen land,
littered concrete and asphalt, helicopters
screaming war while anyone standing
high enough for peace is shot down from
Gandhi to Jack to Martin to Bobby to Oscar
to John of the Beatles, the evil wind
soaring never changed.

We can rise, the minority report flourishing
at times, enough to give us hope
like a birdie between double bogies,

We can rise.

With an ounce of truth told into the
hurricane of lies, we can turn the evil
ship around, apologize.

Admit we raped, pillaged and stole,
see the humanity we are—naked
and part of the earth.

Don’t ever snip earth worn naturally
by children, mutilate a baby against
God’s will.

The baby’s cry is God’s protest; stop
cutting, start listening.  Get out of your
car, join me on the walk to Heaven.



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I don’t know it all, of course—
the in’s, the out’s, the going to
war, learning how to kill and
justify killing.

You learn the devil’s code against
10 commandments or other
dreams available to children
by listening.

Murder is never defense, the
attacker you fear’s heart does
not have to stop beating to
cease as threat.

John F. Kennedy was from so-
and-so peeps, Catholic Church,
big money from Dad’s bootlegging?
No matter to me.

He captained a boat, killed Japanese
people, survived a crash, helped
fellows survive, as the story goes—
that’s Jack.

The ignorance of alcohol abounds,
I used to call the Catholic Church
the Alcoholic Church, and why not?
It hurts!

They say he womanized, the sinless
throwing stones—many thrown by
his killers I’m convinced, evil converging
on 11-22-63.

A different time and era, sad for
those sad at tragedy; a father and
husband murdered, how different
from the Japanese?

Picked off sadly from a Texas knoll,
confused, bedeviled soldiers carrying
out orders of revenge for Bay of Pigs,

Clearing the deck for bloody Vietnam.

It’s tempting to be angry at death
and evil, but one must not play into
it—and instead love our enemies, they
hate it before converting.

“You think you can change the world?
It cannot be done,” yells Lao Tzu
thousands of miles and years away, yet
still we try!

Whatever Jack was before 1963,
he had become quite a voice for peace,
probably the world’s leading one
at death.

Same could be said of Gandhi. Martin,
Bobby, and John in December of 1980,
so many things we cannot control—
evil hurricanes!

I pray for the CIA, for murderers’ row
full of “Who knows?” and fraudulent
piety known as national security!

They need hugs not scorn, so hello,
I love you won’t you tell me your last
name?  No?  I love you anyway, I’ll
love you

until Truth sets you free.  To tell it
we must have safety, and with Higher
Power like the Jewish LORD psalmed
wisely by David

who could be against you if you
decided to break ranks with Fear
and blow the whistle, “Jack!!!  We killed

And we are sorry.  Sorry for Vietnam, for
the lies, for war and evil and injustice—
the money was good and we took it.

We didn’t know that fear is often
False Evidence Appearing Real, and
that there is a God, and that there
is a Heaven.

Find Love and God now!

Turn and find Jack within, forgive
yourself, see the less fortunate,
the unclothed give them a bite!

See that we could go further than
free the slave, we could give them a
piece of the profit they stoked,
the Native American pushed out
or killed

there and waiting to regenerate the
land with us, the litter we fanned
too much, the noise we fueled
to crush—

the Great Spirit battling serpent
covert ops, the secret devil in you
ready to be banished when you
accept poverty,

say no to easy money, lift palms
to the sky, see your spirit and
love connect embracing earth
and life.

Die now, old life!  To the killers of
Jack and to the Devil himself I
say no thanks, I give you my back,

and I smile because I love the fight
that wins every time we surge
to declare Truth at the scary dinner

three-piece suits and cigars over
flammable liquid sold and bought
as “drink,” the devil alive with every

Jack with the saints because with
his last breath he declared Peace.

The Death of Bush: Another JFK Murderer Silenced?


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Cloudy Bush2

—by Bill Watkins, 12-3-2018


I do not feel much for the loss of George Herbert Walker Bush, as many do on my favorite cable news channel, MSNBC.  What I do feel is regret that I did not work harder to get an interview with my uncle’s old boss.

Yes, I’m the nephew of a Bush Sr. cabinet appointee, Admiral James D. Watkins (1927-2012), called to run the Energy Department after heading up Ronald Reagan’s AIDS Commission in 1986.  Before that, my uncle served in the Navy, retiring as Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) not long before accepting the Reagan post.

Years and years earlier, a lot of mystery clouds George H.W. Bush.  Between gigs as a Yale undergrad, notorious Skull and Bones member, “Texas Oil Man” and a place in the House of U.S. Representatives—was he an active CIA operative, critical to the botched Bay of Pigs operation of 1961?  Was he in Dallas on November 22, 1963, and did he, like E. Howard Hunt, have a role in killing John F. Kennedy?

Watch John Hankey’s clever, upbeat horror doc to wake up from any nap, then join me in suspecting George H.W. Bush of covert activity and cover-stories while in the CIA throughout the 1960’s prior to being elected to Congress.  It’s called The Dark Legacy and is available wherever you stream your videos, or from his website:

When I watch the burial services of George H.W. Bush, I feel no sadness.  Only regret that I did not push through with my connections to get a good interview with the man.  Maybe I could have appealed to his highly reported sense of “honor” and cough up some truth!  I believe another of JFK’s murderers has finally passed away this week, and you will too if you research around a bit.  Start with Oliver Stone’s JFK for overview, get into Jim Garrison’s book, On the Trail of the Assassins, then read everything attorney Mark Lane ever wrote on the subject of the Kennedy killing.

Killing Kennedy is not our only national sin, definitely not the first!  We killed off and lied to Native America, stole land, and worked that land with slaves we never paid nor made true amends to, I’m sorry to say.

If we are ever to be a decent country, we must tell the Truth.  The truth of this week for me is that I look forward to moving past another JFK farce, get back to Mueller squaring up Donald Trump for obvious crimes committed, including Obstructing Justice by firing James Comey at the five o’clock hour on May 9th, 2017.