“I am Born”
Love, sweet—soft from hard,
this life is life first, thought second.
Rene had it half-write, the songs I sing
I think you might, wanna…
Come closer to not be afraid, songs typed
before sung are not unlike
Ants to Raid, garbage disposals pumping
horses sunny shade, I am
Often when least-expected brave, a song
sung myself, Mom and Dad loved me
into Life.
I am born. Truth, justice and the American
lie is a golden hymn sung song-like by
hymners and dimmers, golden
Parachute-seekers, rain frolickers, the
Devil waiting in weeks of wings, months
of pain riled up in “rent-is-due” as you discard
on your shelves: all the things you “have to do.”
Turn around; there is no “have-to” worth doing
other than fighting for breath and being. I thought
therefore I was… nothing. I am, and so have
a duty to think—
There’s the rub; when I came out, I thought
poorly being left alone too much perhaps,
I picked up “alcohol,” a fiery substance—
And began to with it dance, ingest, why drink
pain when in pain, the explosion like rain
this is not the promised game, ads on TV
selling me this runaway train.
Get paid? Simple it is to cut-off
mid-sentence the dream we had when born:
instinct, no words, colors and shapes—
all of us all five senses, the sixth only
a wave on the horizon, the formulation
of purpose. Mine goes awry and actions
follow puke to toilette, the commercials
of mountain springs and chick-filled
parties another lie.
Alcohol begetting more alcohol, the
confusion grows into a large unfiltered,
estranged Booty-call.
She picks up; I don’t know what to say,
I’m never drunk enough to be who
I wanted to be—
I STOP. I am Reborn.
This time I come out screaming a different
scream, muffled by the age I’m more tame.
I experience the same set of feelings but
decide to make a change. I hire a Higher
Power to direct through prayer, the gift
is a weight-lifted, “I can see Clearly Now”
The rain, fallen, is with mist and sun a
sultry rainbow I cannot pretend away,
the songs of violence fading to colors’
irregular descent on barrels of fool’s gold.
The mist is real, there is always a grey
in silver lining, it is the wisdom of love
and experience that now says “look
twice before crossing” without being asked
or told to do so.
Our parents were right after all—not only in
traffic but in being loving enough to create
and try, and so the wisdom of ages says:
“Honor them.”
I am reborn again. My heavens it is four
o’clock a.m. Many operate on Roman
calendars but forget to double-check
the purpose in them—
I see the sharpness of Roman columns in the
blue of now; marching is the drum,
The follower another failure like me, but
isn’t it glorious to see the glory in
two walking with Thee?
The name is sacred, say it only in prayer
and High Song;
“Remember for it is the doom of men
that they forget.” Women too, look
at me looking at you. Whetted right, we
pull out our Bibles and fight, the Goliath
in us is tamed, the slingshot love,
David is alive—
I am born
Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet 