Author Archives: Bill Watkins

The High Water Line

12 Tuesday Sep 2017

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I like to walk instead of driving,
look for solutions to today’s problems
in the rear view mirror of books,
hardbacks often hard to find but worth
the struggle.

We seek and find, ask and receive—if
earnest and caring, but so much depends
upon grace or luck, there’s a back and
forth play at work between effort, love
and achievement.

The wide path to destruction might always
just be a fact, the narrow to redemption
and heaven just there was well, Jesus a
“great”—but don’t call him a “good” teacher
unless you want a reprimand.

“You cannot change the world” said Lao Tzu,
“It cannot be done,” is so wise, and yet it
is the human way to try, try, try—for what
else is there really to do but try and be the best
we can be?

“To make an effort” was the reason for
being alive, according to Charles Dickens’
Mrs. Chick, a cool character in Dombey
and Son, which was really about Dombey
and Daughter.

Irony is the bitter pill, sometimes sweet,
like that black hole though—it depends
where you are standing when observing,
it’s all relative like the Water Line drawn
again after a storm.

You wonder if they’ll keep building under
it, or will they learn to respect the force
of nature that wrecks the coast, build
up and back from the shore, deny ourselves
beauty for safety’s sake, use the lessons
we learn from history.

CIA killed JFK, we still didn’t black people
enough pay, and the natives we pushed
off their land so we could frankly: steal
it for apparent gold, and the subtle peace
of segregation and walls.

Something there is that doesn’t love a
fire hose, children in a Birmingham street,
Gandhi grabbing salt from his own beach,
oil pipelines crashing into native American
drum beats.

It would just be neat, if the wide path narrowed,
the narrow widened—which is the exact
reason to get up in the morning and write
a poem, I guess.  Something there is, Robert
Frost on my window.

I look back, try not to get hit in the front,
try to remind us about Samuel’s request for
a king, the corruption that would come
from men ruling over men—it’s still here,
but that’s the world.

We believe what we want to believe, change
walking in bearing five senses if aware you
catch them; driving fast in a metal box you
might miss the message of a cross, and eating,
eating you miss

what the fast was trying to teach, take less
at the buffet, by bread alone man does not
eat, but from every word God speaks, the real
treat is peace of mind following your best
sober day ever.

Every reach is seen and counted, your every
hair a part of universe fabric as it bends to
accept planets and balls, spinning and moving
like sex parts or Niagara Falls, the Earth certainly
alive and well.

Sometimes it’s too hot, sometimes the wind
blows telling us we are not in control,
and scientists insist the temperature is rising
over time in response to irresponsible burning
and human waste.

I am no one to argue with career professionals
minus those who keep killing Kennedy with
every tweet on social media, all of us looking
to November every four years as the Mecca
of potential change.

I prefer to bend with every four months, a new
natural season unfolding seemingly more
powerful where I live than a stated political
goal unfurling in the calm, frantic waters of
history so deep—

So jump in, measure the place where we sank
after the swim, then don’t build buildings anymore
below the mark, so we don’t have to after a
hurricane do this all over again, same with
murdered presidents.

Keep score, mark what CIA said when they
blocked this, or hid this document, hold
each other accountable—don’t let the norm
be the bearer of false witnessing before a
court still reeling,

from the truth behind an M-16 waiting, we
dare you to look, intimidation sometimes
amuck, too much pressure mounting until
whoops!!  The dang levee broke, “We have
to fix it today!!!”

Maybe.  Or maybe wait, take deep breaths,
and hike up the marsh until it’s dry as a bone,
build there.  Look at CIA in the eye, give them
all a hug, and say, “There, there. It’s okay
to lie, and steal,

if you admit the sin, try to never do it again.”
And murder… sixth on the commandment
list of ten: admit, accept, and take the action
of change away from old habits, make a decision—
declare victory!

Come back to God, honor your parents whether
they were nice to you or not, they did their best.
Honor the Sabbath day, and keep Something holy!
Believe in a Power greater than you, keep
Something holy!!

Ask for Wisdom, like Solomon did, erect
your life strong and bright—just smart and
right!  Start by keeping an eye on the past
and what it teaches so fine; start by building
above the line.

Alcohol Baby

11 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in Alcohol, Alcoholism, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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To live forty years in a haze, looking
back on superficial relationships that
crumbled under the slightest strain,

I look for “fault” like the rainbow her
rain, and I stumble on Alcohol, C2H5OH
ethyl, again and again and again.

I think it’s fair to say, that I am an alcohol
baby, am lucky to still be here, but while
some can point behind them to

relationships made, sexual experiences and
love, then to Now at children, grey-haired
husbands, heading toward grandparenthood

and heaven above:

I have my twelve steps, amends to make, no
child in sight, a virgin until thirty-three;
dysfunctional at intimacy, I drank alcohol

instead of expressing each feeling, the devil
within me living and breathing, since that
first fateful sip I wish I never took on Dad’s

lap at five, evil and all bad incarnations of fear
and escape becoming my day-to-day, thinking
all was fine as I stepped up to every sport (a

must-win), girls were not to be tried as the prize
was not in my eyes, everything was an achievement
to achieve, love no place to penetrate,

I convinced myself that tenderness was an unnecessary
dream, I’d get there eventually with the right
mix of booze, the right lie of fools—I had no

idea I was spinning a coil of pain, still uncoiling
today, fifteen-plus years after walking away from
the devil alcohol, what a horrible wreckage my past

is, full of empty achievement and missed love
connections, the glory of the young female body—
missed, maybe forever, as I gray and sag more

everyday.  Time doesn’t wait for the sick, and the
healthy move on to create the next generation of
what we make—let’s hope they stay away from

the flammable liquid that tempted me, let’s
hope they can avoid the suicidal depression that
almost killed me in my twenties; let’s hope

they put God and Love ahead of human doings
and “achievements,” which are nothing without
love and God to fill the cup of certain joy.

Love, sweet love, was not for me when young
and strong, body firm and beautiful—yes I used
to be!!  A body wasted to the alcohol chase,

fear and escape, having the love instinct but
squashing it under fearful feet, I was spiritually
dead, now look around the ghetto where I live,

and have not one single friend from the “good
old days,” because it seems they could handle
a drink or two and have nice families!

There’s no self-pity or sorry at this time, and if
this poem started to sound that way I’m sorry for
the confusion, as I would say that my feelings

on being an alcohol baby are good in that they
reflect proper, healthy Regret, one I can use to
teach any of the next generation I have contact

with, maybe even the children of my old friends
who avoid me, have no time for me, have no need
to pause for as they sign the chit on their

social club bills… Haha, what a thrill, until it all goes
away and you join me when alcohol sneaks
up behind you, keep an eye on your kids but

you first, show an example of what and what
not to do, rethink the drink of colorless, flammable,
volatile liquids, in fact I’d avoid it and feel all

your feelings a ‘natural—even the pain!!  Yes,
the pain, that short term kind, even the nagging
chronic variety.  Better to feel it all, than to run

away into your medicine cabinet, the liquor bar
going down in ecstasy, coming back in double-time
pain, headaches, bad tummy and dehydration—

Joy is dependent on pain’s triumphant overcoming,
so the next time you are tempted to flee your
life for a night in toxic “drink,” steer instead

directly into the storm of your pain, and welcome
that rainbow coming soon at the heels of
victory, joy does not exist without it, let

God instead of lower powers heal you, but in
the end, there’s nothing we can sometimes
do but try to tell the truth, recognize when we

were wrong, try to turn around, do right. Pick
up the disaster debris, and hope

To Love a “Terrorist”

10 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by in Crime, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Terrorism

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Good gosh, we are all just people.
The devil loves it when we label others,
divide, divide, divide.

Don’t just call it a crime, label it something
that conjures a religion, ethnicity
or way that someone dresses!

The devil in love with division, so maybe
we should think of another way to see
things, this my intervention.

People are people—crime is crime, nothing
more or less.  Crime comes from Hunger,
Anger, Loneliness and Fatigue.

There’s no excuse for crime, but neither is
there one for Judging those who commit
it, it could be you—

If you take yourself out of your comfort
zone, try a day in someone else’s shoes.
I almost chuckle at the news,

who tries to figure out in a rational way
the motive for every single bad thing that
happens, a car runs into

a crowd, those reporters often trying to
find a “reason,” like it’s written in some
book!!  It’s not, I guarantee it,

Crime committed not a reasonable thing,
so let’s stop using our brain, switch to our
hearts, begin more giving…

More foreign aid, less judging—more Twinkies,
less bombs, revenge and killing.  “Terrorism”
starts inside of us, there

is sin within us all!  To not admit that, is
to keep throwing stones in Jesus’ face,
at this or that bad man or woman,

Inflating yourself in a high for moments at
a time, making yourself feel strong, amongst
all that weakness, it’s over there!!

Not here, with me, it cannot be, ewww!  Go
away, that’s not me, that’s you!  Ewww!  You
are the devil, never mind

Mine growing in me all the time, I am afraid of
difference and change, and so therefore
pre-judge in thought called prejudice

that leads to actions that discriminate, make
moves to further not love but hate.  We must
change, or just simply wait,

Lao Tzu reminding us we cannot change the world,
so sit back and enjoy what was made by Something
not us for us to enjoy,

or go on saying that it’s all us—we are the Great
Ones that live and Create!

That turban makes me scared, their way of life
different, a different book they read, oh let’s
start grouping that group,

Let’s after another crime, keep grouping that
group until we can “eliminate that group,” and
now you are Hitler.

I don’t judge Hitler because I am a man, and am
prone to sin, but I can note that there was a point
in his life when marbles got lost,

and in the wind of despair and confusion, the devil
told him to kill a race, and he did, and he killed
himself as the story goes.

AND NEVER FORGET TO COUNT AMONG THE
DEAD OF TRAGEDY THE PERPETRATOR OF
CRIMES WHO END THE HORROR BY KILLING
THEMSELVES.

Their loss is sad, too, and if you cannot say that
I can only hope you change and pray for you.
All life is Life and valid,

It’s best to pray for and hope for all mankind to
thrive, win and love.  So while today I wear my
“Resist” T-shirt, and hope that

Bob Mueller gets somebody or other, I still root
for the orange haired man called “president,”
that God touches his life,

that we hear truth, but I do not hold my breath.

Since the prophet Samuel asked for a king so
that the Jewish people could be like “other nations,”
we’ve been in a freefall

of bad kings, leaders, false prophets and presidents
pretending to lead other people—people leading
people, the blind

leading the blind into a ditch, over the falls,
into hell, the garden of weeds, the plastic ravine,
laughing all the time,

might be God above who told us the king would
make us want to whine.  But we cannot go back to
God with words now,

The actions we take, the only way back to putting
the LORD first, judging people not… so that we may
avoid the harsh, deserved judgment

of more suicide bombing.

The waves are upon us, the storm surge reaching
twelve feet, an earthquake to the south, and we
try to hold on to our kings,

Try to with God, Higher Power, Creator compete.

We cannot.  So judge not, lest ye also be judged,
and if the press should at the “terrorist” throw
a stone, even say “coward,”

or “loser,” indeed, let’s keep our heads down,
pull another weed, our own garden needing tending
more than the community pot—

bitter leaning.

God bless us to truth, and the truth is we are
human beings (whatever that means).  Fallible
souls, scoring goals,

with occasionally since David, a beautiful song
to sing… Perhaps we can be silent until one is in
the offering.  I’ll go get some instruments,

give a song to the “terrorists” making snowmen
in the snow, trying to get a good signal to watch
a favorite show.

Ahh, they like to laugh too.  They are not “terrorists,”
unless we all are.  We are all people, dust in the wind
of a hurricane’s star.

We are all people.  Hear this, the call to you—be you,
be you, be the best you and forgive acts of hate
that could have been yours

if in their shoes you walked a day.

Peace!!  The rainbow lacking judgment, of the rain
that pelted the shore, it does not ridicule—the colors,
but reigns its shadow like love

and joy over past’s hard pain.

Grow up, we are the Same.

Helicopters and Hurricanes

08 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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The power of God, natural things, Earth
is nothing to the loud player of God,
revving and burning earth, running, driving
around—even “flying.”

No thought to the deer, the coyote, the birds
in flight running scared—the human mark
is felt, we have forgotten our place on the
ground, where spirit soars.

We want larger, bigger, and better, then hand
power over to the violent—uniformed police
and military, “make us safe” at any cost,
bullets to the torso, sirens and noise…

Boys will be boys, girls girls, Something there
is that suffers under the engines and rotors
of “progress,” the cement, asphalt and sky-
scraping truth of Hell planted in soil.

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
people too—too hot for me and you, “To
serve and protect” an expression neglected
on the firing range, as boys learn to kill,

Call it self-defense, put on a vest, say “we’re
keeping folks safe”—even Saving Lives!!  I say
that God saves on the phone line, hang up
with watch commanders, whose minds

are set on killing peace.

I thought cops were “peace officers,” but
how could they be with all their noise?

Shhhhhh!  Be quiet.  God’s at work, think
of the deer.  Shhhh!  Be quiet.  Act like you’ve
been here before, apologize to Mother Nature,
let’s change, go back to God.

Shhhh!  You want to make sounds, sing a song,
find an instrument, play like David did for
praise and love of life!!!  Be a hero in the strife!

Let’s harken back to a better time, I’m not
saying it’s all been bad but helicopters should
be scrapped—they do not please the LORD.

How many times does God talk through wind
in trees, the birds and bees, and we crank up
a huge engine, do whatever evil we please.

Putting yourself first can go along the road
a while, but there is a point at which the
selfish life fails, that point when news choppers
hover over my house, and I ask them

“What’s the deal?”

Really??  You call this news service, getting us
stories on our TV, that’s worth WRECKING THE
PEACE for miles and miles, I say it’s not!!!

Stand with me, it’s not!!!

Shhhhhhh!  Be quiet, so I can hear the LORD.

Shhhhhhh!  Earth is the right place for love,
haven’t you heard?

Robert Frost was the worst farmer in four counties,
but man he had peace and with a pen knew
what to do with it.

Mind the deer, the buck playing with cheer,
antler on antler, gorgeous hillsides teeming
with life and quiet, giving birth to the next
generation of joy—

that horrible, grinding, yelling buzz of choppers
and their engines, go away!!

Pilots, heal thyself, and come back to sanity,
to walk with me, get out of even your cars, use
your five senses, put your muscles into motion,
stop earth-burning and propelling to use
the machine God gave us, perfect and clean.

Okay, so we’re not always clean, but you know
what I mean…

We’re better off as king of animals, not the sky;
give the sky back to Peace, do it before of
noise pollution we surely die.

Uniformed excusers, you are not saving lives,
you are shutting joy out of life, put rubber
bullets in your chambers, start to live by ten
commandments, the sixth not to kill or murder,

we can turn this “progress” ship around, make it
work, our best qualities undress and give before
we scare the next wild animal clan extinct,

lost to the map of life forever…

Manly men, sports and alcohol, we’re so tough
we don’t need you all—off we go, above the earth,
“we’re saving lives” while we kill the peace, it
makes no sense, nor dollars—

heck, crown Mike Pence!

Fire Samuel, make God our king, we need to live
quiet as deer if we want to protect the land to
keep them here.

In native language, my name is Naked Horse,
I reach out to your spirit, save your soul, come
with me, save the trees.

Leave the heliport, to Police I say “Turn it
all into a foot patrol station,” come out to
schools, teach about law and put your lethal
guns away.

Shhhhh!  Make no noise, walk slow and soft
over leaves as you approach, and the buck,
so pretty in the muck, will find his dream
like yours here on earth opposed to fear don’t
duck the humble needs we have, rest in the
mother’s arms, the dirt our home—our friend,
fear it not, return to peace, return to love,
the deer at play, the seer finally saying what he
sees:

Shhh!  It’s a deer crossing; let’s welcome
peace back in our day!

My Sex Sponsor

07 Thursday Sep 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex

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Something there is that doesn’t
like porn, that believes in intimacy,
morality, monogamy and right.

She stands for God and God’s will,
threw out much of herself years ago
in preparation for marriage and family.

She loves truth, going straight for it,
never beating around the bush, a bird
in the hand worth more than two there.

There are no perfect people, just perfect
strivers, Maria Shriver so tall in her cause,
myself trying to forgive those who hurt

her family time and again for being religious
and peace-loving.  I am no fool, nor as naive
as some who believe they can change the sun.

Greed thrives in war, the spoils shining like
lust, pornography seeming a solution for
loneliness, for not having, we seek a

just reward for just being… And no one stands
up and tells you any different.  Then she comes,
the honest one in the night, an angel out

of dark, too truthful not to fight the pain beneath
the thrills of promiscuity.  My sex sponsor,
as I call her now, rising up against idle evil,

she shines a light, aware she is not good, for
only God can be, that other teachings from the
Son inspire that we “be perfect,” so we go for it;

Life best when we try, try, try to do the right,
right, right thing against the tide of wrong in
the ship God has given us, the only space

wanderer we’ll ever need, the Earth the best
vessel I’ve ever seen, there’s never a need to
really leave it, sorry NASA, we’re spinning right

now at super high speeds—depending on where
you are standing.  Could be that beyond the rocks
is a good roll, a way out of pain, but it’s just

as likely to come to you on the hill, still, after
mountains of meditation about the fox, the
hare and the Bill who invented with Bob a way

to stop drinking alcohol.  Some need twelve steps,
some stop in church or on the bible, but some
stop something bad, make booty calls,

justify other bad behavior “because I gave up
so much years ago! Can’t a guy have any fun!?”
Define fun, we must, Yoda might say that the

path to heaven is thorny but rewarding, be not
horny, or gorgy when you eat ice creamy, put
a Higher Power first, have some balance,

“If heaven you seek, hell you must know and
conquer first, my son” was never really said
‘til now, but look at Steve Miller songs!

I don’t condone pot, admit life is too tough
to write into a poem, but if you are unsure,
and are a man—about how to approach a

Woman…  Ask God, Higher Power, the nature
that in you perhaps years ago placed feelings
for a member of the female race, and I doubt

the feelings were for Sex right away, it was
pure and for love.  You wanted to be with her,
to go on a date, to spend time, then maybe to hug,

kiss, and when the parts showed up, okay
sex becomes natural, the whole thing predicated
on an honesty gene I did not have—or actually

that alcohol and home confusion urinated on
to discolor hearts, mine by eight years old
yellow with fear…

Break out and kiss your memory, read a passage
from an old book you believe in, or might
be willing to to break a rut.

Confusion clutters, muddles and scars over time,
to break its tissue cling to wisdom: Solomon
thought it wise to recall the Wife of Your Youth,

as did a later prophet, Malachi. After Mom and
Dad, choose One Woman to cleave to, enjoy
and spend time with—God bless you in your

choice.  Porn and fornication has no room for
a voice, if committed to the one in our heart
from the start, the wife of our youth who was

pure once, pure always in this long journey
back to childhood called Life.  I love the LORD,
all capitalized to represent the Jewish YHWH.

Don’t say it in vain, beware of the sex game, and
I wish upon the reader the luck to score an angel
like I did a couple weeks ago.  A sex angel, my sex

sponsor, pointing to God and chastising the limp
morality leading to constant gaming and rampant
sexuality.  Choose one partner under God,

and avoid the confusion, the diabolical duality,
the constant motion of self-pleasing that ends
in home-wrecking and closed doors to heaven.

Say “no” a few times a day, build good habits,
live for something bigger than yourself, some
call it Nirvana!

I call it peace of mind, thank my sponsor and God
for the bible and other wisdom, the narrow
thorny non-horny road we walk, never drive…

to Heaven!!!

Compassion for Racist Atheistic Nationalism

06 Wednesday Sep 2017

Posted by in Nationalism, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Racism

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White Jesus told me to join the KKK,
vote for Trump and kick out aliens.

Jesus was clearly white, because of the
image I grew up with over the family
piano.

The real natives in the United States are us
white guys, my clan leader told me so,
and he is older and wiser than most.

The KKK has given me the family I never
had, togetherness and unity.

Hail, Donald Trump!!!

*******

Our education system is greatly flawed,
should have been vamped or scrapped the
minute John Stuart Mill went nuts—but there
it was, we keep pushing classes at kids no matter
what they want to do.

Learning, reading, dreaming—enlightenment is
tough to come by, could be considered Grace, is
a blessing.

Love is grand, some form of God the antidote
for lonely looming around in gangs and sheets,
turning hate into action.

“God wants us to put America first,” tonight’s
leader proposed, and we knew he meant white
people, especially men—and I felt empowered.

Ethnocentric nationalism—country before God,
an evil like any other comes from pain not joy,
must be forgiven if it’s to be changed.

You don’t have to do anything.  Anger,
fighting fire with gasoline may not be the
answer.

Love.  But sleep first, root out evil in your
own life—keep the focus there, as all the best
philosophers from Jesus to Gandhi to MLK
reminded us as we took blows for justice
to thrive.

A watched kettle does actually boil if you
turn up the heat—watching it just slows
time and is boring, so live in the face of hate,

show hate some doors they can choose to open
to find the joy you have found.

Lead by example, show some other ideas to give
a choice to the lonely young man searching for
family.

Reach out and love them.  If not ready, do nothing.

God, Higher Power has got this—we’re not
the greatest nation on earth nor a shiny city on
a hill, speaking of “America”—we’re just people
inhabiting a place, looking for peace.

To Nazi’s and neo-Nazi’s, racists, I say:

God bless you.  Before I got sober, I used to
be one of you.  I looked down on other people,
judged others to get a high because I felt so
low.  I didn’t even know.

I got sober, was at Taco Bell restaurant one day,
saw some black people come by, and I apologized
to them without saying why.

But they knew.  They knew I was raw, newly sober
like a newborn, ready to learn and change.

I love you, and would add that as I forgive you,
I hope you can forgive those in violent opposition
to your hate.  Hate plus hate is bad, both sides are
wrong.

We all, whether we admit it or not, are looking for
peace so we can sleep well, live good days, safe,
fun, passionate and interesting.

I got sober, stopped being racist, sexist and bigoted,
and so could you—there’s lifeafterhate.org,
Christian Picciolini, ExitUSA and
Arno Michaelis’ book, turnaround stories I haven’t
fully read yet but understand to be testaments of
change brought on by love.

I drank Dad’s last sip of bourbon starting at
five, never expressed love, skipped my first
crush, disrespected the wife of my youth,
made racist and sexist jokes, and cut myself
off from real, honest feelings.

The devil was in my life, called in with that
sip of bourbon, I had to finally at thirty years
of age get sober and tell the devil to get behind
me, to get out of my life!!!!

You can do this too, but know you don’t have
to do anything to be loved by God, just as
I already do, because I know you’ve had a hard
time—no one listened to you until you joined
a violent group.

You knew there was evil, why the meetings were
usually secret and in the dark, but that feeling
was a rush and you finally belonged somewhere.

I don’t want to take the good feeling away, but
there is a replacement activity called prayer
and done in light.

Sing out your victory song like David with his psalms,
peg the devil, Goliath, and overcome your worst
fears, your angers turned into hate,

and prolonged hate doing what Yoda says
it does—

“It leads to suffering…….”

Suffer no more, see your choice to hate.

Then, I pray without pressure, with love…

That you make some day like I did…

Another.

Apolitical

04 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in Anti-Political, Apolitical, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political

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I love life, God—call it what you will,
a mysterious mission to maximize five
senses on our way to a sixth called
peace of mind.

We are political, or not, to the exact
extent politics affects us.

I wanted Reagan to win in 1980 against
Carter, had my reasons, was ready to vote—
they said “Go away, you’re only eight years
old” so I went away until I was eighteen
and “legal” by a discriminatory Constitution.

By then I was drinking alcohol underage
for years, saying “F politics, and you.”

I didn’t care for a while until Saddam invaded
Kuwait, then Bush Sr. lit up the sky with war.

I was all for it, put your body into it, go
get’em armed forces, I mean my uncle was
working for Bush as Secretary of Energy at the
time—a former Chief of Naval Operations.

Breaking the law is political too, and I had been
breaking the law since five on Dad’s lap,
I drank his last sip of bourbon and water.

That put a devil in my life, and murder—among
other things, was okay—so killing Iraqis and war
was just fine with me…

Until I got saved at Betty Ford Center, named after
a president’s wife, I started to find a God that
worked for me, centered in Truth, expression of
it, and the end of fear.

My politics began to change, and as peace came
into my life, non-violence respected, war became
the anti-Christ it always was, but now I saw it.

War no longer served me, unless you go by one
definition of “war” I heard once:

“War is the journey of a seed becoming a flower.”

There’s another, even an opposite way to seeing
all things and matters.

Our political feelings are dormant until something
we love is taken away, or we get annoyed or
offended by a politician or his or her political
act or decree.

“They took away my favorite stop sign, they made
fireworks illegal, they’re thinking of deporting my
maid.”

Something hits home, but until then we’re
“apolitical.”

I had a political awakening almost twenty years
after my spiritual one, in October of 2014.

That’s when I let myself see JFK by Oliver Stone.

When I was firmly on the right, Stone was “a
conspiracy kook.”

But HBO kept airing the dang thing that month,
and one day I sat down and watched it.

*******

CIA killed JFK, that’s clear to me after what has now
been three years of study.

I was apolitical about JFK’s murder until it was
clear they got the wrong guy, that Jackie suffered
PTSD from seeing her husband murdered in a cowardly,
covert way.

The CIA continues to skate, locking up American
documents, their version of omerta as they tweet
how cool they are for not having to obey the law.

Makes me sick in a politicized way, gets one off
the bench and ready to play.

Divorce is a myth, truth is sexy, there’s love in
these lines if annoyed, you read between them.

Loving life and God is good, put what you believe
paramount and enjoy.

But if that ability is taken away or even threatened:

Welcome to politics, you will have to take a stand
or die—the fear used to be that communists would
come from the sky.

Some fears have base, some characterized
by False Evidence Appearing Real, so we
F Everything and Run, those commies are coming
for me, pass me a gun!

Some fear North Korea will hit the red button,
but me—I’m grounded in the solid fact that
we in the United States are as corrupt as any
other station.

We kill our own leaders, lock up evidence, then
parade around “saving other nations.”

God saves, reduces “politics” to just another
passion like art or poetry.

Some are into it, some are not—this argument
about living your life until it suddenly stops.

If politics or law contributed to your loss or
annoyance, I’ll see you at the voting polls
applying the Declaration of Independence.

Vote for Hillary or vote for Donald, go independent
or vote not at all—and accept the fact that there
is a Higher Power in charge, politicians are not
it.

As soon as we realize that, we have peace of mind
right in the middle of political despair’s worst,
saddest pit.

Cancer is a Myth

03 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by in Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Death is death, life life, good
and evil separated by clear lines
of wrong and right.

White coats, science, voices of supposed
authority rise against spiritual tides,
seek money, material, a “living” telling
with authority patients things like:

“You are dying. You need me. You need us.
Pay me.  You have insurance, pay me more.”

There is real expertise here and there,
and when I get scraped I seek a bandage
like the next guy.

It’s just that God, not white coats—is in
charge of my life.

The CIA killed JFK, Oswald the cancer
diagnosed by pro-Vietnam anti-Castro
killers prepping to take Cuba back for
capitalism.

Cancer is a myth, complicated diagnoses
for pain, misery and death.

Disease is mostly for the rich, the idle,
for folks with money and time to sit around
and diagnose.

The poor lives or dies.  Wake up or not, are
grateful if awake in another day.

Blessed are the poor, cursed are the earthly
rich; not until we give up our things can we
be content.

I missed the president’s speech about tax
reform, as I was dying in a flood, believing
men can rule over men justly is a moth to the
flame, building homes below the high water
line, but oh what a great view!!

The customer is always last, big corporations
like Verizon and Bank of America taking a pass,
weapons used by cops to kill, never mind the
sixth commandment and my PTSD.

Fireworks boom, we love war then host the
United Nations dedicated to peace, their
charter an ideal impossible to follow while
CIA and FBI tail your car, steal your wallet
and set up murder.

All in the interest of national security, God above
waiting for “them to come back to me…”

Polytheism spreads, each “tumor” spotted we
bow and pray to, sign up for more meds, the
insurance company expanded its drug program,
Hey doc I see a pretty one on TV, will be sure to
take away the pain.

Red ones, blue ones, pink and red—this one’s
for that disease, yell it out and pass the “word!”

You’re working for the devil now, following the
herd—get a faster car, burn more fuel rush around,
the next leader is sure to lead us there.

Yep, another flame.

Cancer is a myth, a tale told by complaint.

What we do when we stop saying thanks.

Thanks for today, God, we don’t know about
tomorrow.  Thanks for today, God, we have no
joys without sorrow.

No health without an occasional cold or pain,
I accept the whole piano—light and dark keys alike,
top to bottom, no bottom without a top—

the top screwed onto the bottom.  Pain is the
thing to overcome not name and call your god,
renounce it, “cancer” and any other name but
God’s and find that bloom on the hill for today,

claim gratitude as your sanity, open up your
curtains to God’s glory.

Stop complaining and call it all “fine,” the
day a blessing, positivist reminders from
Mary Baker Eddy to Ella Wheeler Wilcox speaking
words of faith and health—belief in the sun
making it shine enough for the world to give
up flammable liquid imbibing, making
grape juice from wine,

the gods sunk for Truth to emerge, solitude to
the sour, wheat to the brave, despair to
he who whines, love to the strong who feels
a pain, bears the cross and comes out fine.

Love conquers all, say the words of belief in your
prayer and cast off negative talk.

Step into your day.  It’s all we have, so smile
even through the sad, and when we’re ready to go:

see the celebration that you came, you lived
and you piped the horn of Thanks a few times;
the world was better for your rhyme, and when you
pass you don’t die, your ideas multiply and you smile
in the face of doubt, doctors frowning and pretend
knowledge of futures and dim.

“Thank God for another day.  There is nothing else,
this pain will pass and I’ll smile bigger when it does.
The name I call is God, never disease, and in this
I start with the LORD, then the whole world please.”

Shhh! to cancer and disease, the LORD is working
here.

Never fear, take up your beds and give a cheer!!!

The LORD God is working here!

America

02 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by in America, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Is nothing without the meaning we give,
the soul of place—words we sing, Amerigo
Vespucci coining something, a coast with waves
and life, indigenous and white.

America is nothing, words without meaning
until we pray and bring in Gods to bless, the
day to day rising like a tide, word to word we
try to match feelings inside.

You look at the world, our word for it, try to
get past Borgesian fictions to accept that words
are what we have to conjure and communicate.
We settle, call things “things”—dream.

America is nothing without the dream we bring,
we fill an empty vessel, the uncarved block
of the Tao Te Ching.  A rose by any other name would
smell as sweet, Shakespeare meat,

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
wants it down in Frostian weeds.  Dust thou
art except the soul, and the demons you fight
in others, immigrants, outsiders

are really inside of the fighter.  Our current
“president” watches a lot of TV, some say this
candidate of hate accentuates the divide the
devil tries.

Good news: you don’t have to do anything.
Stand tall or low, firm or soft—do nothing.
Gandhi wanted to change their minds, not kill
them for universal weaknesses shared by all.

Trump talks taxes during a lethal storm, an evil
brought by the wind of bigotry, hating black
people and women—their turn to lead.  Right and
left, all spending too much,

money we do not have, playing God with promises
impossible to keep, getting elected with
private campaign money the eye of the storm
putting money, not ideas… in government.

We kick the natives and their god out,
run our slaves then pay them not, kill JFK
and accept the official story, for to delve in
too deep gets you killed, CIA diabolical feats.

Mark Lane defended Oswald perfectly from
afar, indicted CIA skillfully for anyone with time
to read. They call our president “powerful,”
a laugh, God’s got a bigger stack of chips—

just think about that.  Asymmetry of information
leans on Trump campaign dudes until we might
segue back to 1972, Nixon in flames, Congress
to blame, or is it Samuel for asking for a king?

Lying every other line is consistent with guilt,
the cover up worse than the crime, corrupt
politicians fattening all the time, and what could
we expect with such a wide path to Evil?

Jesus and the elders were right, but we keep
looking around for an easier fight, until a few accept
the narrow road to heaven, seeing we can’t do
much so wait, ask for a blessing, aspire to patience.

We sometimes embark on geographic solutions,
head off where the grass is greener, the whole
discovery period in Europe one of these but worth it
to advance and bring the world closer to itself.

One click away from the other side of the planet seems
a large feat while a photon of light travels seven times
around it, there must be larger powers, atheists,
there must be!!

The wide narrows when we call out pharmaceutical
ads in their evil, C2H5OH the flammable thing sold
as “drink” by devil’s agents, sport itself a great
gateway to alcoholism and divorce.

While writing this screed, the poem looked back
got hit in the front, wearing headphones, looking
down at a cell while walking—which is worse,
that or driving?

Gan the word for eyesight placed first by Okinawan
karate warriors… Beware!!  Could a man rightly
think he could at least have a Cast Away moment
with his first crush, say good-bye?

God bless us to less whining, more striving—less
expecting on the grateful mission of knowing we
don’t know very much, “America” just a word of
many, a polytheistic remedy to time’s forgotten

mystery, Heaven is peace of mind and “other
such dreams,” life…

“it’s like anything else,” Wood Allen feeds, movies
are what they seem, the daytime soap opera
dream washing out our fatigue, giving us space
to think.

America, lol, let’s look at devils within, be
unafraid looking back, making amends, smoothing
out our belligerence.  Education of the MLK and
Gandhi level takes a special focus,

God bless us to it, the fight for justice.  Never bow
to evil, gird us up, God—let’s beat the devil, cast
him behind;  finally cast away, we can be the knight
in our own epic, be heroes in the strife—

Use words because they’re there, their meaning
growing with every blessing.  God bless these words,
even “America,” and all the other nations needing
you, not men as king.

The Answer Behind Us

01 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in History, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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We race on the internet to find the next thing.

“Trump trains, Mueller advancing, Floods
and natural things.”

War and peace, bombs and lies—the truth
hides the fact that usually there’s…

an answer behind us.

History teaches, waits to be hailed like
a cab down the street, like prayer that tells
us not to drive so much raining down
Spring like sleet.

Sheet after sheet, I look back to Samuel
asking for a king, JFK killed by members of
the CIA, slavery never amended in this country,
contracts and treaties killing native people—

tossing them out of their own land so we
can abuse it.

The answer is behind us.

Amends to make, cakes to bake for perceived
enemies you made on our way to friendships
to make—this can’t wait, ask an alcoholic on the
twelve-step train we reach number eight.

“Made a list of all persons we had harmed,
and became willing to make amends to them all.”

It starts to make the sidewalk clean…

Walk with me to number nine:
“We made direct amends to such people wherever
possible, except when to do so would injure them or
others…”

The answer is behind… in the road we self-forked
by self-will run riot out-rooked, pawns to the queen,

take a look at where we have been.

Immorality and lies from the White House is not new,
corruption and untruth.

Look back, get hit in the front was not always the rule,
if looking both ways you see a safe pool on which
to reflect…

See yourself as you are, see me but better yet: see
our history, go backwards to see the path ahead,
and see that covert government makes people dead.

It’s never too late to turn around, rescind Samuel’s
request—ask God to be our king, Something Bigger,
a Higher Power, not the corrupt men and women better
served to just be followers.

The answer is behind us, the wall that we made.  To
chip it away takes mighty tools, or none at
all, remember Lao Tzu who said that to do nothing…

gets everything done.  We are powerless…  Our leaders
not in any way “powerful,” especially during a flood
or earthquakes.

Ours is to enjoy, but first reflect.  Stand by the pool,
see the past and watch it dream into now for
Peace’s will to perfect—this could be the Way!!

Looking back when there’s a safe moment, study and
read a book to go with your internet.

See the news today cresting from a historical wave
of past activity and doings.  Be the one who sees
the now as an avenue of the yesterday parade
brewing to end the alcohol and drug sales stewing—
growing wings, flying rampant through the wide
path to death, so the devil takes his due, God sidelined
to watch our response.

We do and dream, things aren’t always what they
seem, and I—

I took the path less traveled back, more is less,
less more, the answer behind us clear as bells
at Christmas time converting mass amounts
of people to snowy July feelings of rebirth.

The answer behind us takes work.  Stop drinking
flammable liquid, rebuke TV drug ads and walk
away from your car enough to feel five senses
bringing you to your critical sixth:

so hard you’ll wanna cuss!

The answer is behind us.