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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Category Archives: Nature

Lethal Force Argument Fails in Big Picture

02 Tuesday Nov 2021

Posted by Bill Watkins in Nature, Poetic Blog, Police

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, LAPD, Lethal Force, Love, Peace, Police

Lethal1

***

I recently spent some time with an LAPD officer, who went over a variety of potentially lethal situations he and his fellows face while on the job, trying to protect and serve.  He was surprisingly convincing, had me on the edge of my seat, and I was close to renouncing some of my religious views—the main one with relevance being the Sixth Commandment of the Jewish Torah:

Thou shalt not kill.

The officer was convincing with the set of conditions in front of him, as a lethally trained cop, but…  After a few days to meditate, I recalled the big picture.  Stolen Native American land… Guns and more guns rationalized by bibles, then the forced industrialization and development of this once thriving wilderness turn New Europe.

In the insanity civilization has created, the normalization of fast cars, planes, and even the loud war machine helicopters above us claiming law enforcement:  one could argue that indeed some people need killing.  An insane notion made almost palatable on the concrete and asphalt of this city:  law officers speeding around in fancy cars burning earth, flying around over our homes burning more earth—

Showing up mid-conflict… someone draws a knife, or a gun, or a machete… and now?  The police officer called in with few facts and limited knowledge of a crime scene shows up to make a life or death decision with his or her lethal firearm.  They trained to kill, trained to shoot for the largest mass on the human body—the torso, the chest, the heart… to kill.

And given all of that, all that touring around in fire-burning vehicles across this once natural area turned polluted metropolis:  they are out of touch.  Their boots are not on the ground.  They don’t know the suspect nor the suspect’s family.  They often know only a little about the community they enforce, and what they do know they know driving at high speeds or worse yet, flying loud metal choppers from above us.

Lethal force in policing is always wrong, I still assert.  Even after an LAPD officer’s impassioned plea to me and set of scenario explanations…  Why?  Because the concept of “America,” land theft and the forced industrialization of this land has created the insane situations they experience that only seem to justify the taking of human life on the job.

I reject lethal force.  I reject lethal force training.  But well before that, I reject “Los Angeles,” the “United States of America” and any other concepts deriving from a racist, criminal theft of land some like to call a romantic conquest so they can keep benefitting from sin.  Putting down our guns may not be the first step toward proper amends, but it is one. 

It’s time to question the founding of this New Europe on stolen Native American land, where gun use is too often justified in the loud, polluted insanity industrialization has created here.

Where God and Earth Meet

20 Friday Dec 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in God, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Bible, Creation, Evolution, God, Joy, Love, Mother Nature, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality

Mother Earth2

The bible was law, among
other things, code with rules
and goals set for students
and readers to follow for
spiritual fulfillment, and as
a guide to reach heaven.

Civilization needs law, people
packed in together, concrete
and asphalt beginning to take
us away from the Earth, nature
itself being our first and only
needed book to guide us…

The smile is within, the bloom
on the field, many plants in
limbo needing more sun or
more rain, the cycle of life all
around us—including paper
and ink, laws and rules fine…

God, good orderly direction,
higher powers, the Supreme
Mover of all things; it’s a
relationship we may have
with a simple ask, or a prayer.
Use a book or the tree to

help you overcome your fear.
What unifies is a proper guide,
what separates in negative vibe
from a lower power, as my AA
sponsor would say, powerful too—
Pick one, it’s up to you!

Dogs Are Overrated

26 Tuesday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Dogs, Humor, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Barking Dogs, Dogs, Frustrated, Humor, Joy, Loud, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Rant

Dog2

Sorry, folks, this writer is
tired of the bark, the short
life spans, the attachments
then death, the shit on the
lawn, the tearing up your
furniture and pissing on
your new carpet until you
just don’t buy new carpets
anymore.

In the absence of slaves or
toy robot servants we choose
dogs; in the absence of human
friends to boss around and
cuddle with we choose dogs…
But not I, I just live with them
against my will until I have
enough money or means to
evict them.

Yes, I want to evict dogs from
my life, to leave more room
for God in my life, people,
peace, clean lawns and rugs,
attachments that last more
than thirteen years.  I know if
you are a dog person this might
offend you, and if you be such
too bad.

I think dogs are overrated, and
I say that calmly without being
mad.  They’re great in the store,
cute to cuddle a moment with,
but I currently seek an Isle of
Humans where I can immerse
myself in pure humanity, nature—
dogs are in nature—fine, they
can be there,

On their own island far from mine;
if I hear another dog bark after nine
I think I might take up rock n’ roll
to become deaf on purpose;
to hear them bark my peace away
is to harp on this poem like
brotherly love its Philly cheesesteak,
give me a break, I’m tempted to
eat cheesecake,

An appetite to write without
Scruffy, Biff, Buffy or Pooch
pooping, peeing, and barking
on my birthright… To humans,
All hail human beings!  Nature
fine, over there and around us
fine, but too many dogs on the
block turns my poetry into
unfine wine.

Turning the page, in the peace
of moments when they do
sleep I shine… Until we meat
again, Puppy, I’m sure all my
days you’ll try to follow me,
But I’m working on my clever
zig-zag, so be prepared to
separate, I gotta date, with a
real woman,

Kids on the way, I don’t need
the extra weight!  Adieu, doggies,
you’re cute but too loud, one
way or another I’ll never forget
you.  Good night to all lovers,
this has been a rant in a night
when dogs saw a cat and started
barking without end on top of
and all over my life.

I Wanna Be in the Cycle

26 Tuesday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spirituality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Eternal Life, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spirituality, Truth

Great Mex1

The old Jews were “gathered
to their people.”

You live a righteous life along
the straight and narrow.
You stay the course,
once you find a good one;
You make amends for your
past ills and you seek a way
to live forever.

Eternal life is the stream, it
goes and goes with or without
us, but to make an impact,
to exist in a child through
blood or something you taught…

I wanna be in the cycle!

God places us perfectly where
we are, it’s fair and honest;
Sometimes young we get
abused into poor habits
that make adults out of us…

This is about finding our
way back to youth!

I wanna be in the cycle!

The grasshopper is there,
frogs in the desert climbing
trees today, who knows for
tomorrow—

Moments are eternal, and
what we do can matter, so
measure well before carving
then carve with me a path
to heaven—

Today is the cycle!

Look up, sing, dance, give
your gift and take a deep
breath that one day will
be forever, a smile on the
lips of the mind’s peace
at having done our very
best, John Wooden’s test.

That’s the cycle!  See you
on it, let’s go, just be your best,
Wooden’s test let’s go

I’ll Miss the Winter

12 Saturday Jan 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Joy, Love, Nature, Peace, Seasons

winter

Before the change, you wait
until lo and behold: it’s too late,
the wind and the spin of the planet
beginning again around the sun,

ninety to a hundred times seen
per blessed life, Hebrew kings
and justice is still right.  Pinch here,
pinch there, we’re different

I’ll miss her.

As long as I’m alive I’ll live July
missing winter.

Something dreams and I’m stronger.
We get up in peace, as long as we
yesterday struggled and sacrificed
enough, took our shopping money

to the street, clothed a man on his
last leg, wet pants—you said and did
the right things, changed him with
a tear as he said three cheers.

You walk at limp pace with the suffering
masses, being sure you’re not “ahead
of your skis,” the advanced run wisping
by trees toward Heaven.

There are no signs for it, minus the
aforementioned dreams.  And they do
not come remembered until you commit
to truth, take off your own threads,

give your life to powers unseen, see
your part in the general flow, put an
extra coat on—hoping for one more
splash in the song that is today.

I’ll miss the winter, when long
from it I wet my own sheets dreaming
of she’s and he’s who like me, admit
they can’t do it alone.

I’ll miss the winter, when in the Truth
of now I shine a light on age, rocks
sagging off a sheened rebel coast,
Scotland crags, Welsh hills awaiting
decoration—

As we stand to holler one more time.

I’ll miss the winter, as I shout my
colors into the wind, national flags
sagging likewise around children and
infants raped by ignorant knives

as mother cries, father and so many
on the wide path of “I don’t know”
and “Whatever they say—”

We abdicate our will to white coats
until grace appears at point of death.

We see light at last, breathe and smile.
Dealt this, we cope, try to accept the
wrongs but call them out so the next
little boy and girl tastes opportunity
and freedom sooner you hope—

than you did.

Sighs breed change as winds their
leaves returning—yell out “God”
or something like it now.  Grab
today!  The hope, stay warm at night
say good night and pray.

It’s getting warm again, as you knew it
would.  You shake it off, stare at the
firewood.

“Until next year,” you think of things
only God should.

I’m a Pussy? Thanks!

28 Saturday Jul 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Earth, Native, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Earth, Education, God, Joy, Love, Native, Peace, Sex

We grow up cursing, when
we don’t know another way,
many of us so far from the land
God gave our people, disenfranchised,

lost, discombobulated by years
of concrete, asphalt, sirens and
the worst invention by man to
date:

Helicopters.

***

The native, the first people, the
“pagan” was one with the land
and sea, never cursed—for why
curse, when all of life is a part
of you and what you do, no
separation, gratitude so natural
because the cycle is endless hope,
story and adventure, a tie between
you and all the generations?

But I walk L.A. today, walk over
and by the trash, the litter, under
the thunder of metal fueled by
the earth we try to master, not
honor.

But I walk L.A. today, the big city,
civilization with indeed some decent
plumbing, I guess; harnessed power
giving us light when we want,
electronics on which I write tonight.

But as I walk, they curse at me—
little boys becoming men by the
train station, calling me a “pussy”
because I called the police.

Me saying “thanks,” because pussy
is good.  Our moms, sisters, and
women good and essential, our
body parts essential—especially glorious
and wonderful the reproductive
organs.

***

There are no curse words in Native
American language.

We’re All Up Here

25 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Great Spirit, Native, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Jesus, Joy, Love, Native, Peace, Spirit

At that time the disciples came to Jesus
and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in
the kingdom of heaven?”
He called a little child to him, and placed
the child among them.  And he said:
“Truly I tell you, unless you change and
become like little children, you will never
enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore,
whoever takes the lowly position of this child
is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
And whoever welcomes one such child in
my name welcomes me.”

***

Jesus touted children.

Painted life a journey to discover
the one within us;
when discovered, ahh!  There you
are.  Like a Moana song, there
is your path, your best you…

Heaven.

***

Native Americans often pointed
to elders, at the other extreme.

Kids could not talk in groups; elders
with priority.

Shhhh.  We listen.  Listen to God,
the Great Spirit through an effort
at silence.

Breeze through trees, the leaves
a dance against the face of
wisdom, yielding a trickle-down
Reagan and Bush would envy.

The peace of streams.  That and more
we left behind when we sold all
to build our cities.

Just a Tree

14 Thursday Jun 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Nature, Peace, Poetry

You look up from a rut, or a
pattern, and you notice the
beauty of a tree.

It feels good, the neck stretched
like branches, the blue of sky
broken by leaves, you douse
it all with your hose,

the sparkle of the tree!

We aren’t the only ones here.

Humans are one of many
living things that give the LORD
cheer.  The atheist closes the book,
let’s try to gather—don’t go!

Call great feelings and inspiration
any other name you choose.

What makes you smile?

Ahh, that’s it!  That’s what I
get when I pray to a higher power,
when I let go perceived control,
and know I am not in charge
nor able to secure results.

I can try and try; then I can
live or die—all a choice in the
garden that is life!

I “choose life,” to recall a Scottish
film with a guy named Ren,
who was hooked on death to
avoid the day to day of what
others did.

I choose poems!

I choose art, then go out and
admire God’s.  Yes, God’s—
the name I call the “Whatever
it is, I didn’t make it but it’s kinda’
good!”

Call it Jehovah!  Call it Nothing!

Call your best feelings your best
feelings, let go of the hate that
broods for long enough to consider
the tree that leans into the
sun, never judges, accepts and
hopes for the best.

I Like Life

13 Wednesday Jun 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Life, Nature, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Recovery

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Gratitude, Joy, Life, Love, Peace, Poetry, Recovery, Sobriety

Just as it is.

It needs not our sour rot,
the grape is better than the
wine—a reason they call war
trophies spoils,

the disease of more plundering
the till that is perfect as is,
Lao Tzu’s quiet, uncarved block.

I like Life!

Sunshines and rays against the
mist making ready rainbows of
our worst rains and pains…

I like life!

Just as it was; God, Higher Power
the mantra hated by an atheist,
his or her right but look not to
altered states—

Put up a fight!!

Do not say good bye until true
fatigue sets in, the eyes close
in a smile—

Good night!

I like life, citizens of Rome, nothing’s
wrong until we think too much,
adult games forgetting that philosophy
that to get to heaven (peace of mind)
one must be like a child.

I like life—

Calm in the middle of strife.

The worse thing that can happen
often out of our control, ask
the powers above for Wisdom,
be like King Solomon and grow
very old!

Not 100 years like today, but
hearken back to the Old Jews’
day.

“He was 946 years old, and was
gathered to his people.”

I like life!

Sunny, rainy, put up a fight!  Sing
song, God, good, no?

Rain.  Sunshine.

Bow.  Rainbow?  Fine—the end?

no.  Beginning?

Always

Wilson Lake

12 Tuesday Jun 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in California History, History, Native, Native America, Native American, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

California, History, Joy, Love, Native, Native America, Native American, Native Americans, Nature, Peace, Rain, San Marino

San Marino used to have a lake.

(The San Marino in Southern
California, not the tiny country
in Europe.)

San Marino used to have a lake
until the settlers came, made
a claim, had ideas and acted
before asking what the land could
actually take.

Soon a guy named Wilson “bought”
God’s land, called it his, used all
that water to farm aggressively—
crops not always indigenous or
natural, or free.

“The lake had dried up into a swampy
morass due to excessive water usage
by local settlers”

an article reads.  So, then,

They brought the dirt down and filled
in the lake.

I have no judgments to make,
nothing biting or sharp, just
the observation that mistakes
mostly happen at high pace,
on the way to claim a lake—

or even on the way to the bank.

When we fail to ask before
we take—

The mass of swirl that is “Karmic
Gate,” opens up to teach us,

sometimes a hard lesson that will
be remembered and never again
re-made.

Every choice has a consequence,
every single one—

so maybe it’s not the first thought
that should win, but a third
thought fought for, prayed
for, asked for and won.

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