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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Monthly Archives: December 2016

Belly of the Beast

18 Sunday Dec 2016

Posted by Bill Watkins in CIA, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

We should have nothing to do
with conquest.
–Thomas Jefferson

America’s number one crime family
is CIA, the conquest instinct
alive and kicking as the Devil
rocks excited, kicking up dust manifest
towards suffocating destiny.

I love you, don’t get me wrong:

the sinner in me not far from
my steps, I was a drunk high on
alcoholic beverages, C2H5OH
ethyl not Lucy—flammable and
volatile, a first fuel for
rockets…

Down the hatch, no way to catch—
you had to ask God, Something big
and powerful in prayer.

(But it was so much easier to join
a gang. For me it was almost the
Pasadena Bloods, wearing red putting
hands up against the night. Red
clothes, red SUV—tinted and pretty.
Instant Family!!!)

That’s how the CIA does it as well,
Mafioso-like recruitment in your
lonely hour needing friends.

A “purpose…”

Even if that purpose is evil, it justifies
itself in group therapy and togetherness,
we’re all together in this mess!!!

Raise your glass to lack of tenderness;
it’s “National Security” that will veil
our silliness.

Grown men and women tip-toeing
around spreading lies, propaganda and
reasons foreign leaders must die, so
we can get paid “killing” them, even if
ideas and spirit never die.

The mob and gang mentality is similar
in our highest criminal courts, who
accept at times the misnamed
“cui bono” (who benefits) AS IF FROM
A MURDER OF ANOTHER HUMAN BEING
ANYONE, ANYTIME…

BENEFITS.

No one wins with murder. Murder is just
murder. A lost spirit. A lost potential.

A lost set of ideas and actions, that perhaps
you do not like now; they oppose you
or your plans to own, or financially gain
or win some short term prize.

But TO MURDER. To Murder a foreign
“leader,” a man or woman from man and
woman like you, a fellow trudger on this
earth, a brother or sister who played in
a sandbox like you did.

Maybe they lacked that opportunity.

We can love, seek to understand over
always being understood; we can open
up and learn another point of view.

Bend or break! The killer, conquering
instinct from Satan not God, no matter
what you call it, from a “business move”
to “national security.”

Evil is evil, killing killing, and killing is never
national or self-defense.

Disease of More

18 Sunday Dec 2016

Posted by Bill Watkins in CIA, Mob, Native America, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

Oswald’s 6th and CIA Omerta
seem lesser concepts when compared
to native plight, the
White man coming, conquering
and killing in the night.

The mob our government has locked
inside, from Ivy League schools
or wherever nice but lonely
rich kids can be recruited to be
in a family of brotherhood and togetherness.

To gather around crime is tempting
and even easy.

We group together, then justify wrong
acts because our brothers are doing them too.

The mob speaks of omerta, taking
secrets to the grave, and the CIA
is of the same mold.

God bless us all to proud truth of
who and what we are;

No matter how sick, perverse or wrong—

There is always a way out and back
to love and goodness.

The gospels are there for us when
we ask, we receive.

Or the Tao Te Ching.

Or the native river, writings of thanks
written on the wind, the leaves
changing so why not us?

Give them their land back, and let’s go
back to ours.

Lost Gratitude

14 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by Bill Watkins in Native America, Poetry

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Tags

Love, Peace, Truth

This white man apologizes,
as I look East out over the plain
of regret.

Peace, once a birthright of an
indigenous soul… it dreamed
to always be, leader in a land
it felt blessed to soar in, Truth
was in the water that flowed clean
and crisp and clear—

Cold and refreshing to the touch.

White men came.

Why did they come?

What was wrong with the land God
had given them?

Did we lose our gratitude?

Gold, Riches. Indian Wisdom?

14 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by Bill Watkins in Native America, Poetry

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Kickapoo, Love, Peace

We sought many things.

The thing we should have taken back to England
was Indian Wisdom:

To love your land,
stay loyal to it, give to it,
and thank God for it every day.

“Have No gods Before Me,” God hollered
down to Moses and the people.

“Not even alcohol?” was proposed back
by a wide path called ignorance.

On “Ownership” of Land:

Some of our chiefs make the claim that the land
belongs to us. It is not what the Great Spirit told me.
He told me that the lands belong to Him, that no
people owns the land.
—Kanekuk, Kickapoo Prophet

Why Should Indians be First, Not Last?

This is their country, not ours.

“Aspire for Less”

More and more, every day.

“Be As Children”

More and more, every day.

“Growing Down”

Become more as a child,
and prepare for heaven.

White People Must Leave.

Follow me.

Stray Dogs, Helicopters and Trash

08 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by Bill Watkins in Los Angeles, Native America, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

norwich-terrier

Stand down, army, stand down.

You are worse than the British over
the colonies years ago.

You are loud, helicopters—and I can think
of no benefits to you except for maybe
that kind that dowse forest
fires with water.

The modern American city is
a modern American blasphemy.

Then call the police station to complain
about their loud helicopters and hear
the voice of stupidity talking back,
trying to justify the violent, loud
way of life while bad budgets
have stray dogs pooping in our storm
drains.

God, we should have learned from the
Native American people, listened to them.

Respected them.

Enough to leave when we were no longer
welcome.

Back to our lands of origin.

The lands that God gave us; the ones
in which we buried our fathers and
mothers.

Concrete, metal and trash litter the ground
that used to connect us with Mother
Earth.

We have cut ourselves off from Love
itself, then wonder why the homeless
congregate in urine-filled gutters,
homeless dogs, too. This one from
England, this one from Australia—

Even the Dogs are lost in a country not
their own!!!

Disenchanted. Disillusioned, but so often
blissfully ignorant we immigrants squat on
Indian land.

We laugh the empty thrill of victory
that defeats ourselves with every cigarette
obtained, smoked and littered.

We laugh the high shrill shriek of killing
ourselves with alcohol and drugs,
because we know no better than we were
shown, and Dad hadn’t a clue.

“We are searching for a suspect in your
area.”

Officer: search for yourself, for YOU—not
they, are the Criminal making noise beyond
reason into the night over this supposed
City of Angels.

Be quiet, and change your life.

Find your roots, go there.

Indians: come back

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