via The New Year
The New Year
27 Thursday Dec 2018
Posted in Poetic Blog
Monthly Archives: December 2018
The Christmas Spirit
22 Saturday Dec 2018
Posted in Poetic Blog
Wind Chime
16 Sunday Dec 2018
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…
words.
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
14 Friday Dec 2018
Posted in God, Health, Men's Health, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spiritual
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.
Jack
09 Sunday Dec 2018
Posted in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry
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
Jack!”
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
table,
three-piece suits and cigars over
flammable liquid sold and bought
as “drink,” the devil alive with every
clink,
Jack with the saints because with
his last breath he declared Peace.
The Death of Bush: Another JFK Murderer Silenced?
03 Monday Dec 2018
Posted in JFK, Kennedy, Poetic Blog, Politics
—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: http://www.thedarklegacy.com/.
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.
Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet 