Category Archives: Peace

I Like Life

13 Wednesday Jun 2018

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

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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

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The Noise of a Helicopter

27 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Blogs, God, Native, Nature, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Did we pause to ask?

Before we reached for the sky, turned
on the motors, did we ask?

Peace.

Peace of mind… fighting the winds
of change and some’s progress
while the birds hang on and chirp,
the deer and coyote hiding.

What is truly good for us?  Is “no”
a complete response sufficient to
stuff the ask?

The disease of more, the frantic pace,
the never-satisfied on the move race
of running fast, burning fuel and
unsettling the score.

God forgives us when we ask, but
cannot help you at 10,000 feet
and 300 miles per hour.

Heaven is a peace of mind, knowing
you did your best to be the best
person you were capable of becoming.

John Wooden and I invented that after
he had won 10 national championships
without focusing on winning.

Each and every skill defined and perfected,
the game and our lives broken down into
their parts.

Find it in your heart to stop.

***

The rotors must stop for us to hear
the LORD, Great Spirit, Mother
Nature, the Lady of the Lake yearning
for our quiet so the deer can
return to inspire us.

God is not in the weeds but in their
pulling, the mulch of strength covering
the growth of evil as the dragon
breathes death on the disrespectful
and reverent alike.

Shhhh.

Be quiet.  Stop doing.

Turn over all will to good, then decide
whether the speed is worth the loss.

The being on hyperspace, whizzing
by the lights, making noise—

How did it help us sleep?

Shhhh.

God is talking

The Search for Meaning

06 Tuesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Native, Peace, Poetry, Political

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Ancient Sins, Amends
and Justice

-by Bill Watkins 6/5/2017

Livingston2 -- Work Walk

LORD, help me communicate your message.

Amen.

***

I have left Los Angeles, California in search of meaning, poetic justice—taking my sins east someday across the ocean back to Europe.

I have decided to pass through beautiful Livingston, Montana for a year or two to gain a different experience, to become a man, prepare for England’s colder weather, and to get some financial standing.

410 years ago three Watkins brothers arrived in the land we now call Virginia—a land that was inhabited by a great people.  We, the English, named it what we wanted and called it ours.

We measured ourselves against the natives by skin color, dress and military weapons—saw an “advantage,” sought to conquer.

Our sins are vast.  Sins of judgment, murder, selfishness, ingratitude, ignorance, and self-righteousness.  Sure, we were chased there by religious wars, oppressive social structures and monarchy.

But also greed.  Vanity; the desire for fame and glory, riches—gold and spices.

A name to place in history as the man or men who discovered a new land or route around the world.

Notice no mention of “God” yet.  While our explorers spoke of “mission” and Bible and bringing God to the New World, our actions were GodLESS.

We lived by the gun and sword.  Died by it.  So many of us throughout history to now just on that Jesus-mentioned “wide path to destruction.”

Lao Tzu said “You cannot change the world.  It cannot be done.”

So why write a piece like this?  Why leave Los Angeles?

Why come to Montana, en route to Wales, United Kingdom—home of the Watkins family that stayed in Europe?

Meaning.

For this poet, meaning… For the world, this poet sets out with the gift God directly gave to drive truth into the wide path.

To split that path, and light the trail back to Heaven’s narrow road.

If I believe through fast and prayer that I may move a mountain from there to here, it shall be done.

If I know CIA killed JFK, then covered up the crime—I shall say so, demand truth, and move on to other dark chapters, light them with alacrity.

If I am sure that we owe amends to anyone related to American SLAVES, I shall write that fact—and push us to truth, action and needed reparations.

Hurting others is hurting ourselves.  Killing off Native America, is killing off Nature in this land.

We must stop, restore land to the Native peoples “won” through bloodshed, threats and broken promises—bring Karma back to the land…

The Great Spirit, often forgotten from big cities to the hearts of reservations—sad with despondent reservation, alcohol, depression—will and must rise again.

The Great Spirit will rise when the Native American people rise again, and the land will prosper.

A Third Political party will emerge.  One of peace and love for Mother Earth.

But first I must remove myself back to England.  Back across the sea, and take our sins with me.

I do so for the Cherokee.  For the Sioux.  For the Crow, the Blackfoot, the Tongva out west—all the tribes, together must rise as I leave with God’s spirit East from here to the land of the Celts.

I will take back, finally, the land’s Gold:

Native American Wisdom and Love for Land.

Europe will thrive when I bring this gold back to them.

And meaning will come to me, a life poetic that gave up comfort to honor God.

Crime is Crime. Not Religious

23 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Peace, Political, Terror, Terrorism

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-by Bill Watkins 5/23/2017

In Alcoholics Anonymous I heard the term HALT for the first time, referring to “Hungry Angry Lonely Tired,” as in: beware not to get bogged down by those feelings.  To do so, would be to risk a relapse into alcohol consumption.

It is my opinion that all crime, no matter how law enforcement labels it, comes from five sources: the four in HALT, and the devil himself.

Crime that hurts people, is not a rational thing usually, so cannot be explained or fought with rational tools.

A bomb goes off and people die.  A tragedy happens, and the many stages of grief and loss begin, one of them being anger.  With that anger, a desire for revenge for many.

Revenge is also an irrational response, and does not rationally stop the behavior that created the anger that leads to revenge.

The big missing buzz word so far is love.  Love is the irrational response to all matters good and bad—hard to give when faced with bad, like crime, but of endless value.  Forgiveness is love’s proud and proper neighbor, ready to enhance and spread like misnamed “terrorism.”

Crime is crime.  Call it “terror.”  Call it an unfortunate response to Hunger, Anger, Loneliness and/or fatigue.  The devil spinning evil, like a hurricane hitting the southeast of America, a bad storm—a necessary flip of the coin, yin to yang, the opposite of goodness, love and peace.

Lao Tzu said “we cannot change the world. It cannot be done,” and I agree, but…  It is ours to try.

Let’s try with love not hate, with forgiveness not revenge, with hugs not bombs.

Livingston

05 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by in Love, Peace, Poetry

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I watch them litter in Los Angeles,
hear the illegal bombs detonate
every Summer, thug life calling it all
the Fourth of July—but you know:

War is war.

I look East, to where my people
came from, bumbling West.

Wales.

Home of crusty shores, green valleys,
wet and medium cloudy and blue
skies in my dreams only, ‘cause
I’ve never been.

London has plays, football and a dry
wit, the foundation of English
there among the crags of Scottish
Highland wind—

Hope dawns in an Irish Spring, sing-
songing an accent, speaking of a golf
links well-played by a guy named Padraig,
green as can be, smoky over water
to the sunshine of a well-struck fairway
wood against thunder.

Rains all the time until it doesn’t, the clouds
yawning fog away and the rainbow
spawns a son, Gold not waiting at its end
but beginning when an “American” tired
of hidden Kennedy’s and covered up
Cold War murder returns.

“Repatriation” sings out to the conscience
of a man beat around the links too many
times by alcoholic graft.

I seek a putter from the rough, couldn’t
be happier I can see around the bush—

My 400 years of servitude in “America” perhaps
passing like a fallen mountain breeze.

Winter descends on trash in Los Angeles,
and I—

I seek employment in Montana with friends:

River called “Elk” or “Yellowstone” by other names
as flowing.

Constant is God’s invitation to Glory.

But we only accept when ready—

When we’ve put in the work, amended the
idiot we were to bring out the man
or woman ever-seeking the child within on
paths East toward Heaven.

Reborn is the sinner at admitting fault.
Love beckons the other half in me
unexplored.

Come with me to Livingston, in words
only if necessary, we like to keep it small.

The town is a river, mountains and changing
weather. This is God’s country at the hip
of National Park presence.

A break for many, exposure to the land.

The Indians had it right all along, never
cursing—always blessing the land.

Without good words, hold tongues.

I go East to Livingston, if she’ll have me.

A year or two, then Wales. Home.

400 years later, Watkins returns…
if she’ll have me.

If she’ll have me.

Heddwch fy mhobl…

If she’ll have me!!!

Put Your Guns Down…

20 Saturday Dec 2014

Posted by in American Poem, Peace

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Put it Down

I guess we all have to live our
own lives, make mistakes—
fall on our face, we must
learn our own way and can’t
or won’t always be taught another…

We come from where we come
from, some are book smart or dumb,
others with street savvy, others can
ride a horse, know what to do in
a barn—

Still others work on a farm, and the
city slicker like me’d be lost
outside the city… until found.

Like a Frost poem from long ago
we are called to what we’re called to,
I hope you find your way from ground
to air to ground, over rivers and snow;
the journey that’s life takes what it takes,

and gives when it can, evil fighting good
and vice versa, Tao Te Ching still yelling
out “you cannot change the world,” and yet
we try and we try and we try,
‘cause that’s our job.

The pacifist calls the military man,
asks does he want a show, because
“I dream to love you guys anyway,
your choice not being mine, but maybe
by us mixing we’ll learn from each other—
be fine.”

And the comic visits military bases,
and the world looks more and more like
the charter from the United Nations…

The U.S. finally gives up its Covert Operations
because you can’t rightly shake hands
with your brother, steal the cash from
his underwear drawer, and be ethical
all at once.

Something’s gotta give, and maybe
it’s that military boy after the show,
having heard some words he liked
He wonders why Dad never told
him so…

Life, what a mess—sometimes to figure
it out you gotta be Elliot Ness, Wyatt Earp
or Lao Tsu—

Someone knew but shhh! The FBI is listening,
the good part of the CIA taking notes,
the bad being forgotten as Obama with heart

Welcomes the Cubans back to the dinner
table. It’s not about agreeing all the time.

Tolerance good enough and that brings
in Mary:

“Enough is as good as a feast.”

Well then, ready to drop your gun?

Put it down, next to mine, let’s you
and I get a pad out and make a schedule
for today—

16 hours to kill—

Scratch that. 16 hours without killing,
without assaulting, without something
to get in the way of contented sleep,
maybe go for a walk and read, do some work,
housework is fine.

Force times distance keeping us
six feet above the end, so that we
can be friends and sleep.

see ya in 8