• AA Pitch
  • ABOUT
  • Anti-Alcohol Ads
  • Beverly Hills Cop V
  • Beyond the Grades
  • Bill’s Books
  • Church of MARY
  • CLEAN L.A.
  • Comedy
  • Contact/Booking
  • Election Reform — Los Angeles
  • Events
  • First Step Education
  • Guest Register
  • L.A. Budget Ideas
  • Love without Alcohol — Public Speaking
  • Music/YouTube
  • Oswald’s 6th
  • People’s Police Force — L.A.
  • Podcast — Bill’s Poetique
  • Poetry Arrived
  • Public Safety — L.A.
  • Return to Silverado
  • Submit
  • Subtracting Division

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Monthly Archives: November 2017

My Crooked Johnson

14 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Circumcision, Health, Men's Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

I was born premature.  They stuck
tubes into my lungs, helped me to breathe.

I ran naked all over my third birthday party
to my mom’s chagrin.  She could not stop me.

Dad gave me his last sip of bourbon and water
when I was five.  I started drinking fire with

“friends” at the age of twelve, was blacking out
by the age of thirteen.

I never talked about sex or love.  I drank
alcohol and played sports.  I loved the girl,

but never told her.

I jacked off thinking about her.  So much
with the right hand that my johnson

went crooked to the left by college.

***

They took the time and effort to snip off
my foreskin, but never told me step by step

what to do with the whole member.

We have celebrity sex abuse scandals gone
wild, “powerful men” wagging their cocks

under lock and key, intimidating witnesses and
victims with threats and displays of temper.

Wrath is God’s, honesty a key to the lock,
but when the stones appear to throw at the sick

my prayer is we don’t throw them, unless you
can claim to be without sin, which I doubt

if you be human.

***

Crooked is the way out of Eden; Adam and Eve,
their forbidden consumption, Cain killing Abel
and lying about it—Samuel asking for a king
to be like other nations—

putting men in charge of other men, reaping
God’s curse.

We put religion before truth and earth, conquered
native people, littered the ground with metal
and ground up stones to make concrete.

We built temples to ourselves, had slaves
build them, then killed our king in 1963,
lied about it like Cain.

***

My crooked Johnson is a perfect response
to Eve, Adam, Cain, Samuel, and the CIA.

Alcoholism from an inability to express love,
Freud once said, crushing grapes—letting them
spoil. Eating them to get a buzz and forget God.

My crooked Johnson is exposed to help the next
generation straighten his.

Don’t touch it.  Marry and rejoice with the Wife
of Your Youth, and never let her go—choose one!

We choose One God. Choose that first gal the LORD
gives you, for she is a blessing.  And to do her wrong

a grave sin.  Ask Malachi!

God help us.  The ten commandments are fine, the
native ones good, too.  Each religion has a code,
each culture a set of rules, so study them!

Ancient wisdom inspires Truth.  Truth sets us
free, and for the sexual abuse to end, we must
come out.

Forgive us God.  Help us find the straight path
under You, away from the crooked asphalt of lies

Eve, Adam, Cain and Samuel supplies!

The snip of baby boys’ SKIN on his PENIS without
consent; the sip of Ethyl Alcohol given on laps
and loose bar-b-ques; the lack of sex and love talks,
the neglect of Reason stemming from turning our
back on Creation.

Its Creator.  Waiting for us to return every moment.

Great spirit, the Tao of Life, God above referring
to all we don’t know that brought us and our
cocks here:

Thank you.

And we are sorry when we put ourselves and our
perversions before Nature, love, essence and truth.

Essence and You!

Forbidden Fruit, Samuel’s Curse And the Road Back to Eden

13 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political, Spiritual

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bible, Joy, Love, Peace

Shhh.

God is in the wind.  The song forms…

Shhh.

Don’t wake and rise until the wind chimes
night away in the mind, the dreams advising
us on what the conscious cannot report,

ESP guiding the Aborigine from tree to tree,
the desert nothing to the faithful, guiding peace
from the forest, oneness with all.

The Native American rises, beats a chest with
truth, slept on the ground that gave him life.
Sometimes too hot is the eye of heaven—

And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
Shakespeare a friend of words—

Leaving Eden, we found talking to God more
and more remote through prophets, judges,
kings and medicine men!

The best leader taps for you a way to lead
yourself—listen!

Shhh.

Sit still and breathe in the change that Adam
brought, chains of slavery wrought, justice and
other words playing out over hundreds of years

while a historian writes down “1861-1865.”

Go further.

Deny these elections, that prop up biggest money’s
biggest candidates, the process a lie.

Abbreviations like NRA and CIA have been in
control of American Government since 1963.

Human kings peeing on God from Samuel’s
request until today, so don’t buy it!

Keep your money on lockdown, un-register like
I did until your mailbox is no longer full
of candidate waste, fancy paper and graphics
while OUR SIDEWALKS CRUMBLE, TRASH LITTERS
THE STREETS, GUTTERS AND DRAINS CLOGGED,
NOISY POLICE HELICOPTERS PRETENDING TO
“KEEP THE PEACE,”

American “Central Intelligence” killing our
own peace-loving president in cold blood,
covering up the crime with lines fools, ignorant

or just people with no time to fact-check
beg to believe.

Chris Matthews on my TV, so smart and
shrewd, my elder and an experienced
pundit:

Slandering Lee Harvey Oswald, forgetting
our own 6th Amendment to the United States
Constitution guaranteeing our accused

AN ADVERSERIAL DUE PROCESS OF LAW—
A DEFENSE.  TWO SIDES IN A COURTROOM BEFORE
A JUDGE AND/OR JURY TO ARGUE BACK
AND FORTH FOR A GREATER TRUTH.

Ah, but Chris and others at the military’s RCA’s
NBC and others just go with the old
“Appeal to Authority” fallacy.

“Bobby Kennedy, the victim’s brother, with
access to all that intelligence… said Lee
Harvey Oswald did it.”

No thanks, Chris and NBC.

That is shoddy journalism, and a slander
on due process, the same thing we do today
blaming Hillary Clinton for “losing” an election
in 2016 AGAINST DONALD TRUMP AND RUSSIA!!

To call “foul” in American politics is a drop in
buckets unheard by the shooter at the range,
the killer propping up the Second Amendment
over the Sixth Commandment:

Thou shall not Kill.

Stuttering is fine, but wisdom never does it.

Confessions of a Teenage Masturbator

12 Sunday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Health, Men's Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

Harvey Weinstein and Roy Moore made
me do it, I had to cum clean!

I used to do it, too—you know what
I mean???

I never broke the law, but I almost broke
my johnson!

At least I thought I did, that first time alone
in my lonely bed,

Underneath the sheets and my lonely
bun huggers.

I was way older than you should be to start;
fourteen years old

Maybe it’s good for your heart?

No one told me what the hell was going
on in the sex arena;

I had to pretend to listen in sex ed to unemotional
monotoned “ejaculation” remarks.

I had no idea it was more like lightning unbottled,
a jizzing spark in the dark!

Wow!  A light seemed to flash, the heat a fire in
the tip—“It’s gonna blow!!!”

The first time, I stopped before completion, sure
the bottle would break.

Nights later, I went at it again, this time with
“success,” the fire lit,

milky white residue, what the hell? Oh yeah, they
called that something in class,

Something to do with the ocean—sea men
overboard, the sticky stuff was weird.

Thing is, it all seemed so abnormally normal,
no one talking to me, scared to ask,

I started drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap, we
never had “the talk,” only a divorce

from he and Mom—but did you know that
when you lie detector the divorced,

they lie when they say they’re divorced?

Back to the “issue” in my hands, over the years
I switched from right to left,

After the right hand in teenage years warped
the product which now leans left!

Yikes, not the end of the world, but still no
one talked to me!!

Isn’t that the problem with the whole of
this big “sexual assault” sea?

We don’t talk to our young, we don’t teach
stuff like, “Honey, you might fall in love,

and love is good, here’s what the body does,
we love you, honey—support you and your
love, your body and what it does.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of—love and this
body.  When you love someone,

Tell them with all your heart, let it out.

You are safe to ask us anything, fire away,
we love you, your body, and what it does!”

Hmm.  Would have been great!  I probably
would have married the Wife of my Youth
like Malachi and Solomon advised.

But I did not, became alcoholic and a thirty-
three year old virgin

with a warped cock.

(It never did right itself when I switched to
the left hand after college…)

I dabbled at quitting, as I did alcohol consumption
near sixteen years ago—

would stay hands-off for up to twenty days, but
in the end it had worked its

way into my reward system in a given day—
felt I “deserved” it…

Until it led me to loose sexual behavior;
we’ve all seen examples lately on TV.

I called a married woman with a cute kid,
was intent on getting down with her

even after I “prayed” about it!!

We sometimes need to pray harder, but that
was the end of the masturbation line,

the loose sexual practice disguised as divine.

I could not hurt a child—be a “home wrecker,”
as I had been hurt by such parental actions!!!

I outed myself on the phone with that wife,
a real Christian, and devoted to her husband.

She chuckled, and said: “I would never do
that…” And I chuckled,

Then she (rudely—lol) accused me of being
a porn man!!

“Porn,” dear??  How dare thee accuse us, the
royal we of such improprietous malconduct?!?!

I was caught and have been off my johnson and
the porn for two and half months.

Anyone can “do” it, Harvey and Roy!

And by the way, reader: Pray for us ignorant
jackers-off to heal,

and find a child to properly teach rather than
throwing stones deep into

the sunny breach.

The Twitter speech, the OMG “he’s a pig” easy way
to displace from all your own sins—

Teach.

“Preach, Master! Preach!!!”

I am a former master of the bait, the sexual
trap of not knowing what else to do,

so we threaten our prey into the warped penis
of our less than ideal past doodoo.

Pray for us all, mind our hands, and love one
god and one mate for life—

“Enough as good as a feast,” Mary Poppins
good to Michael and Jane.

But who was it who told them all?

All about the Game…?

Tag.  You’re it!!  God help us.  Give…

Forget your shame.

She Had to Get Her Balance

11 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

To delve in details is trite until
love is the answer—the reason for
the dive!

She stood unbalanced on a curb,
when I dove in to hug her.

We had never met, a forward move,
but we shared honesty on the street;

undressed figuratively, the move was to
share a physical thanks.

So many hold back, you never know—
so when she mid-hug backed away,
I merely figured she was one who holds
back, but actually:

She was being safe.  She knew she teetered
on a curb, so paused the hug to re-
position herself.  Braced on firmer ground,
she gave me fuller attention—

She was serious about hugs!

Serious about hugging me!

Braced she stood ready, arms out, muttering
something about the “curb” and “balance”—
then inviting me in warmly.

A great little hugger, memorialized a couple
poems ago.

That someone takes hugging so seriously was
a refreshing swim in a desert sea.

I dream of what else could be braced for,
hoped for, practiced and accomplished.

She almost fell, re-positioned and caught
me right—

A hug to dream on late in the night.

Love and peace dreamed in the crevasse
of night…

A crack of delight;

Hope the rainbow after rain, the wet
to drown away plight.

My Sagging Rocks

10 Friday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Graphic, Health, Honest, Men's Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

I used to play unafraid.  There was
a Winter under the free step of Spring
but I ignored it as long as I could, was not
aware that life and bodies would change
as early as I had flown with the earth
thirty times around the sun.

Around my thirtieth birthday my balls
began to sag.

I choose truthful words over the poetic
to be blunt with a loving audience like
you, who has little time to dilly dally.

“Anything more than the truth would
have seemed to weak” said Robert Frost
while depicting another day of bad
farming in the northeast of native land
cultivated by the White.

The paint of snow is another thing;

Something there is that loves walls,
the devil a rake in orange hair pretending
at thrones “to be like other nations,”
the prophet Samuel’s request like a snake
in grass, a forbidden fruit to look
at your ass—

I should have married and stayed true
to the Wife of my Youth!!

But no.  They laughed at me when I said
I kissed her.

They laughed at all the children who
wanted to report their first crush, but
had a sibling unchecked by drunk
parents who abused and scoffed at love.

I turned to alcohol and sports over love;

Pretending I did not love Anne, JJ, Melanie
and Amy.  Megan, Barbara, Beatrice and
Kristin—the list is so long, the eighth step
amends of men who were wrong.

And in all that delay, that time of dysfunction—
the body kept growing, aging, never a girlfriend,
intimacy for me not there.

I woke up near my thirtieth birthday with
beautiful pubic hair.

But something had changed.  They dropped.

My balls.  Sagging like an old man.

I was a virgin in the sand.  No kids.  No love.

And I was slowly dying, evidenced in the
extended sack between my legs!

Dying!  Dying before I had lived, I would
journey three more years before landing
a girl willing to have me inside her; I had
to shave my homeless beard before she
did it, but she did it, and we did it, and
I forgot my sagging rocks that night!

But sometimes, when all alone in my
beweeped state, in a lonely forty-five year
old single bed I reach down, then down some
more to feel at near-lifeless tissue—

sagging sinew, a scrotal reminder of time
flown, aging and reasons to write a poem
a young boy might read to help him change
his ways immediately.

Tell her you love her.  Now and forever;
against the hum of haters and potential regret,
laugh at them with four kids on your lap,

instead of a thought of sagging naps.

God is with me, don’t get me wrong, my sagging
rocks a reason to pray the harder, help
the more, get out of self—youth on the other
side of service’s open door…

A Great Little Hugger

09 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Cute, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

I was walking home—the long way.

You were heading for your car after work,
cool and slow, under a hood on a nice,
sunny fall day—

when I caught you.

We had never met, I asked to pass on
the left, and you were startled.

I asked, “Did I scare you?” and you
kind of said “yes,” then I explored
why you’d be afraid in broad daylight
in the middle of the sidewalk.

She was a sharer; not tall, skinny, dark
hair under the hood, saying what she
most feared was a dog attack around here…

So there I was stopped with the stranger
under the hood by her dusty sedan, cued
to share my martial arts tips—especially
against attacking dogs.

She was a sharer; also a willing listener.

“Willing” being one of the sexiest character
traits of any female I know—

She paused to give me her ears, and I told
the dark art of killing attacking dogs;
knowledge to know and hopefully never use,
as most martial artistry strives to be.

“With Dobermans you do X…” and she
nodded, interested and cute.

“And with all other dogs you do Y.”

I caught my breath, as “Y” is pretty gross
on a full stomach, but she was fine and
grateful for the tip.

I told her about Okinawan Karate’s first
principle, gan, or “eyesight”—as in keep
your eyes on everything and everyone, sight
our first defense against trouble.

Martial Arts is the artform of keeping the peace;
what police claim to do as they siren and
chopper around making noise, shooting guns.

I failed to mention that to Mari, the girl, my
new friend, but again she was willing to converse
on and on with me, so sexy and cute I could
hardly stand.

Not in a hurry, willing, listening, passionate with
stories to rival my stories and accepting of
my business card promising poetry, even
an explicit one or two.

She was okay with that, more talk revealing
she had a boyfriend—something I had to know
before proposing marriage or some dumb thing!

I hugged her three times before we parted.  Each
time she hugged back.  A skinny gal with heart
and love of love—her form filled my body and
time freezes to remind us that on any given day,
you might share a desert island with another soul.

If only for a few moments, they and you are all that
matter.  No boyfriends or wives are there.

Some have the religion or constitution to save
all they have for that loved one at home.

Things really are “what they are,” and the less
we judge them the better.  One could cast a stone,
but sin, truth and need plagues and blesses
us all into hugging strangers with all our heart
sometimes,

Me with room to think of her all night.

Her, with a “boyfriend,” as expressed—but
did she think of me too?

Can chemistry run only one way?

On that desert island, we could make amazing
love together.

As I pray for rain, the sun shines on a sore toe
forbidding an adventure to try and see her again.

Life is the humble pie we eat on the way
to saving the rain forests of the world in our den.

Love in a Greyhound Bus

06 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Erotic, Explicit, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Love, Sex, Truth

I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.

Whew!

Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!

Your Suits Won’t Help You

02 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Historical, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

When Samuel asked for a king
to be like other nations, nothing
in what the people wore could
stop God’s curse from forming.

We replaced truth with religion,
kicking God further out the picture;
Building and building, not in the
Longfellow sense for the thrill—

But brick on brick to worship our
own “creations,” edging out
further, the Entity we can no longer
name very much in Congress.

***

God, grant us peace as we go back
to 1607.  My people landed; three
Welshmen from Wales, with Captain
Smith on British coat tales, we sought

a buck, fame, exploration, certain
feathers in caps to be the first and
all of that—we shot at Indians, first
by calling them “Indians,” then by

sizing them up as smaller, less-clothed
with worse weapons of war, they did not
murder as well as us, we could defeat
them—if it came to that!

***

We did not know that most Native
American people were on the side of
Mother Nature.  So when we murdered
them, we hurt ourselves, brick by brick,

Building more and more monuments to
glorify the human race.  So fun and pretty,
we could win, but God was on the outside
still, cast aside as we reaped Samuel’s curse.

Brick by brick, we stormed the castle of
future regret.  But not all was a loss; concrete
and asphalt was to come, the big American
city.  Gutters, trash littered evenly throughout

the lawns of our triumph.  This was our day,
“God” more and more taboo on the
Senate floor, but first let’s talk about
Slavery.  Yes, we haven’t amended that sin yet.

No, we wear suits in court; wear them to win
elections.  We wear them to hide our
bodies, to put out a message of oneness with
fashion and constraint.  We tie ties around

our own necks—perhaps a nod to the slaves,
who were shackled, yoked and murdered by
the thousands as they streamed from West
Africa to the Caribbean and New World lands.

600,000 died in a “civil” war to stop the crime
of human subjugation and inequality; then
Martin fought a second action one hundred
years later.  Now what?

A “president” can’t decide where evil lurks
at a KKK rally, slurs at black athletes as they
“take a knee” to protest police brutality—the
south looms a tough beast to slay, even today.

I am a former slave owner, says my last name—
an obvious thing, but who can stand up
with me and admit we were wrong?… After
national debt is paid off, why not dish twenty

grand to anyone who can claim African descent
here?  Allow at least a financial compensation for
the chains, murder and dismay.  Former kings,
queens and princes rounded up by black traitors

to make a buck with white traders, black market
supply and demand run by the devil himself.
I am alcoholic.  Believe in looking back at sin—
making amends.

We need to honor the contracts and treaties
made with Native Americans.  Even if we
must give land back—and why?  For ourselves,
Mother Nature and national karma.

Our suits cannot help the truth—disclosed is
the lie in every FBI tie that Oswald even fired
a rifle on November 22nd, 1963.  Failed a paraffin
test for the date, the gun found a German Mauser

not Oswald’s deficient magazine order Italian
carbine.  We’ve been a lie.  The day Kennedy
died was when CIA started to run the United
States of America, the lone member of the

United Nations to hate peace.

We should be evicted from the New
York meetings, when the day comes they
wisen up, move to Paris or Switzerland—
our suits hide the bum attire of murder,

violence across the seas in the calm of night,
protecting a banker’s rights, dead is the storm
drain of Saul’s crown, clogging the vaccine
that is God—kick the white coats finally out,

And accept that we must reverse the curse
ourselves, accept our nakedness, going
back to the fruit and telling the devil “no.”

As little children we enter heaven, not as
rich bigwigs.  Take off your suit, and help
me pick up trash

Newer posts →

Subscribe

  • Entries (RSS)
  • Comments (RSS)

Archives

  • September 2025
  • August 2025
  • April 2025
  • March 2025
  • January 2025
  • September 2024
  • January 2024
  • September 2023
  • August 2023
  • April 2023
  • November 2022
  • March 2022
  • November 2021
  • October 2021
  • July 2021
  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • December 2020
  • November 2020
  • October 2020
  • September 2020
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • February 2020
  • January 2020
  • December 2019
  • November 2019
  • October 2019
  • September 2019
  • August 2019
  • July 2019
  • June 2019
  • May 2019
  • February 2019
  • January 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • October 2018
  • September 2018
  • August 2018
  • July 2018
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • September 2017
  • August 2017
  • July 2017
  • June 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • September 2016
  • August 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2016
  • March 2016
  • February 2016
  • December 2015
  • November 2015
  • September 2015
  • August 2015
  • July 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • May 2014
  • April 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014

Categories

  • 1984
  • Acceptance
  • Addiction
  • African
  • African American
  • Aging
  • Alcohol
  • Alcoholics Anonymous
  • Alcoholism
  • Alegre
  • Allegory
  • Amends
  • America
  • American Poem
  • Amor
  • Amtrak
  • Anatomy
  • Andrew Young
  • Anecdote
  • Anti-Political
  • Apolitical
  • Arthur Davison Ficke
  • Article
  • Articles
  • Austin Clarke
  • Awareness
  • Basketball
  • Beautiful
  • beauty
  • Beer
  • Belief
  • Bible
  • Biblia
  • Biblica
  • Biblical
  • Big Bang
  • Bilingual
  • Birthday
  • Blog
  • Blogs
  • Blues
  • Books
  • Border
  • Boys
  • Britain
  • Brothers
  • Bullies
  • California
  • California History
  • Cars
  • Catholic
  • Catholic Church
  • Childhood
  • Children
  • Christ
  • Christian
  • Christian Science
  • Christianity
  • Christmas
  • Church
  • CIA
  • Circumcision
  • Citizenship
  • Civil Rights
  • Classic Poems
  • Classified
  • College
  • College Sports
  • Colonialism
  • Comedy
  • Comical
  • Commandments
  • Community
  • Conquest
  • Constitution
  • Corruption
  • Cosmic
  • Covid
  • Creation
  • Crime
  • Criminal Law
  • Cristiano
  • Cristo
  • Cute
  • Cycle of Life
  • Dating
  • Decisions
  • dedication
  • Depression
  • Divorce
  • Doctors
  • Dogs
  • Drugs
  • Earth
  • Easter
  • Education
  • England
  • Enlightenment
  • Entertainment
  • Environment
  • Epic
  • Erotic
  • Escape
  • España
  • Español
  • Espiritual
  • Eternity
  • Europe
  • Explicit
  • Faith
  • Family
  • Fantasy
  • Fútbol
  • Feminism
  • Football
  • Forgiveness
  • Frost
  • Galaxy
  • Geocracy
  • God
  • Gospel
  • Government
  • Graphic
  • Gratitude
  • Great Spirit
  • Growing Up
  • Gun Control
  • Guns
  • Hard Times
  • Healing
  • Health
  • Heaven
  • Helicopters
  • High School
  • Higher Power
  • Hillary
  • Historical
  • History
  • Holiday
  • Home
  • Homeless
  • Homosexuality
  • Honest
  • Honor
  • Humor
  • Humorous
  • Immigration
  • Imperialism
  • Indigenous
  • Innocence
  • Innocence Lost
  • Inspiration
  • Inspirational
  • Intactivism
  • Interview
  • Ireland
  • Irish
  • Irish Poets
  • James Oppenheim
  • Jesus
  • Jesus said
  • JFK
  • John Gould Fletcher
  • Journalism
  • Journey
  • Joy
  • Junior High
  • Katherine Mansfield
  • Kennedy
  • Kids
  • La Fe
  • La medicina occidental
  • Ladies
  • Land Theft
  • Lao Tzu
  • LAPD
  • Latin America
  • Law
  • Life
  • Literature
  • Living with an Alcoholic
  • Livingston
  • Los Angeles
  • Loss
  • Love
  • Marriage
  • Masks
  • Mater Dolorosa
  • México
  • Men's Health
  • Mental Exercise
  • Mental Health
  • Mexico
  • Middle Age
  • Middle School
  • Military
  • Misogyny
  • Mob
  • Mom
  • Montana
  • Morality
  • Mother
  • Murder
  • Music
  • My Dad
  • Mystical
  • Nahuatl
  • Nationalism
  • Native
  • Native America
  • Native American
  • Nature
  • NCAA
  • New Year
  • New Zealand
  • News
  • Noise Pollution
  • Nostalgia
  • Ogden Nash Poems
  • Oldies
  • Olympic
  • Olympics
  • Opinion
  • Originality
  • Overcoming
  • Pain
  • Panic
  • Paradise
  • Parenting
  • Parody
  • Pasadena
  • Pánico
  • Peace
  • Peer Pressure
  • Personal
  • Philosophy
  • Plog
  • Poem
  • Poema
  • Poemas
  • Poems
  • Poesia
  • Poetic Blog
  • Poetry
  • Police
  • Political
  • Political Satire
  • Politics
  • Polytechnic School
  • Positive Thinking
  • Positivism
  • Prayer
  • Prescribed Medication
  • Public Transportation
  • Race
  • Racism
  • Rare Poems
  • Recovery
  • Redemption
  • Relationships
  • Religion
  • Religious
  • Resentment
  • Review
  • Rights
  • Robert Frost
  • Romance
  • Russia
  • Salud
  • San Miguel de Allende
  • Satire
  • Science
  • Scoop
  • Scottish
  • Sex
  • Sexism
  • Sexual
  • Sexuality
  • Sexy
  • Shakespeare
  • Shootings
  • SK Rolle
  • Slavery
  • Sobriety
  • Socal
  • Soccer
  • Soul
  • Space
  • Space Travel
  • Spain
  • Spanish
  • Spies
  • Spirit
  • Spiritual
  • Spiritual Awakening
  • Spirituality
  • Sports
  • Sports Addiction
  • Sportsmanship
  • Spring
  • Stage Review
  • Strength
  • Success
  • Suicide
  • Surfing
  • Talgarth
  • Tao
  • Tao Te Ching
  • Ted Hughes Poems
  • Teen
  • Terror
  • Terrorism
  • Thanksgiving Lie
  • Theater
  • Theatre
  • Thomas Lodge
  • Thomas MacGreevy
  • Tongva Nation
  • Tragedy
  • Travel
  • Tribute
  • Trump
  • Truth
  • UCSB
  • Ukraine
  • United Nations
  • United states
  • Universe
  • USA
  • Valentine's Day
  • Volleyball
  • Voting
  • Wales
  • Waves
  • Weird
  • Welsh
  • Western Medicine
  • Westridge School
  • Winter
  • Winter Olympics
  • Wisdom
  • Womanizing
  • Women
  • Women's Health
  • Words
  • World Peace
  • Xenophobia
  • Youth

Meta

  • Create account
  • Log in

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Subscribe Subscribed
    • Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet
    • Join 452 other subscribers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet
    • Subscribe Subscribed
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar