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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Category Archives: Poems

In Third Grade…

16 Tuesday Jan 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholism, Joy, Love, Peace

In third grade I knew enough to
know what I wanted, who I wanted—
and was even a year from knowing
who I wanted to vote for in
November.

But no adult asked or cared about
what I wanted, who I wanted, or
even who I might want to vote for
in November.

And the adults controlled me.  I backed
off my dreams:

To be a professional athlete, to love
and marry Anne Devereux, and to
have a vote because I wanted to be
a part of and help this country.

By eighteen years old I was drinking
flammable alcohol underage, breaking
laws, flipping the bird at hope and
politics, a racist, chauvinist pig unable of
expressing love for Anne or anyone.

At home was alcohol and “divorce,”
the misnomer some so excited to
pronounce against Jesus’ truth that “man
cannot separate what God has bound”—

it explains the private frown, as I walked
around, pretending to be fine—the Old French
word meaning “end.”

Friends:

The devil is tough, and wide is destruction’s
path—this is not now nor will life ever
be easy!!

Take a hard line against alcohol, and at least
look it up in a dictionary “what it is” and decide
if it’s smart to imbibe it.

Maybe the grape is better than the spoil
that makes intoxicating wine—

the pain of loss and hardship felt better than
the alcoholic escape into buzz and fake
views on men and women breaking
vows before God.

It’s not the messenger but the message
that shines, when I attempt to bring you:

“Children!”

After God, “Children!”

Drink not spoiled toxic waste, feel your
short term pain to get long-term gain,

and listen to our children!!

They want what they want, for me starting
around eight—

Money for school could have been parlayed
to the serious coach taking my dream
seriously;

Someone would have asked if I was in
love, and I would have said “yes,” but
I was not asked, felt judged anywhere
near the topic, and had no God to
give me courage to tell her the truth.

Shhh.

To give what we did not get is tough.

Shhh.

Listen to the child and what they’re worth.

Some even read better than a man forty-three;
are ready to vote, and help our country.

Racist “President”

12 Friday Jan 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Racism, Trump

The devil is strong, don’t get me wrong—
and we humans are wise not to ever
judge other humans.

But stating truth is a good first step,
and though we’ve had corrupt and sinful
humans in “office” before—

(CIA killing people covertly, locking
up documents in government omerta,
pretending “democracy…”

The devil runs a lot of what we do—
wide the path to destruction, and many
people on it!)

***

But there is no excuse for the rise of
a KKK, Hitler-style mein Trumph red-faced
hater of a racist

in the highest executive office of this
often corrupt government.  Often off,
yes, but usually striving

until the hatred for the nation’s first
black president rose among the white
type, say “elites,”

and the misogynistic, ignorant ultra-white
wing tearing town a woman out of hand
as not “military” tough…

“We hate Hillary” turned by Russian bots
and linking hands with neo-Nazis into
the Donald Trump platform.

His dad, Fred Trump, was arrested for
fighting with the KKK against those damned
Catholic New York cops.

***

It is tempting to be hateful and judgmental
at hate and judgment, but I will refrain, pray
for Trump and

all confused, racist people.  People who
often were raised wrong, with lies
all around them.

The lies come from hard times, are a defense
mechanism against a real or perceived
block to one’s way of life.

Donald’s dad faced what he faced, being
German when he was—was he hiding
his Nazi card, making

a habit of lying, saying they were “Swedish”
to keep the money coming in as Immigrants
to America?

Did Donald see those lies, absorb them, become
a liar, develop defenses about who he was and
where he was from?

Was there a deep down and low inferiority
complex that created Hitler?  Did that same
inferiority create Trump?

Give Hitler credit for honesty, he was out of the
closet, an obvious violent racist—while Trump
harbors hate in

secret waters, stirred up by certain reporters
and probes at certain times.  “Take a knee”
slave and be whipped;

“Jews will not replace us” from “good people,”
the Confederate monuments are our culture
and history,

Never mind Heather Heyer, or that hate
produced a murder: “We must preserve
our racist culture,”

Trump seems to say, from a stolen seat—
one sold out by Republicans to any candidate
that could Hillary beat.

Forget morals, forget effort, forget progress,
and world peace.  (That could be a Twitter
bio blurb for CIA,

but I was at first thinking about Republicans
like my aging father now passed, who was duped
into a Trump vote.

A racist vote.  The vote for hate.  The vote stirred
up by people’s hatred for non-white advance,
feeling “replaced”

by superior education in non-white speakers,
pundits and politicians.  “Women should know
their place,” speaks Ignorance

and Trump’s every other word a lie to
keep his dad’s secrets safe.  It’s okay to admit
you’re a Nazi, Donald—

and I’ll tell you why:

Nazis sprung from the first World War, a horrible
Hell of a place.  Violence, death, insanity and
a crippling treaty

lacking benevolence or thought toward
Germany’s innocent children, growing up
in the 1920’s while

we got drunk and flapper-danced our
way to record stock market highs.  The
rise of Hitler

and German hatred stirred up war and
Fred Trump.  It is understandable, as Fred
was a landlord

in New York, accused of discrimination
by Woody Guthrie: “Beach Haven is Trump’s Tower
Where no black folks come to roam.”

Fred’s son in Fred’s image, racist and
red-faced in private, “not a racist bone in
my body,”

he says until you discern and discover
Trump’s code-language, and here is the key:
Most major statements

he makes: the opposite is true.)

***

So, we have a racist person—who most-
likely stole the office—sitting in the White
House, supposedly

representing this region of the world to
other parts of the world.

***

Sad.  Embarrassing.  The first time any
“president” of the United States made
me cry.

Call me a snowflake, CIA—you have made
me cry many times, killing Kennedy,
Martin, Kennedy, and Lennon—

Taking out Romero in El Salvador to top
it off—any minister or peace-lover
against your war agenda.

***

Now a racist “president” character
assassinating every person world-wide who
is not “white” or European-rooted.

I pray for Trump, who was born into
racism; has never known the glory of
spirit that emanates

without prejudice from the spirited;

be they black, white, red or brown,
the healing blue I send to you, for
racism and

bigotry was in me once too!  I was
ignorant, pre-spiritual awakening, drinking
flammable liquid

(so praying to false gods), and I brought
down all “others” from women to
different races.

It was the wrong way, but I could not
buck it until I could trust someone
enough to tell truth.

Donald, may you find love and truth;
may God come to you, reveal Him
or Herself—

same goes for the CIA, its evil “covert”
insanity, and to the sellout GOP, who
stirred up hate

by standing with Trump against the
first Woman who should have been
president.

To follow the first black man in the office.

Those words: “women” and “black,” “African
American” and “wives”—these are to be put down
to the racist,

not voted into office.  To the bigot.  To the
chauvinistic misogynistic, confused bedeviled
folks…

I love you.

The Christmas Spirit

24 Sunday Dec 2017

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

Christmas Spirit

It’s what we make of the season
that matters, as we light the fire—

Memories to mean something,
the pagan wreath unmistakably

smelling pretty, us and the earth
connecting at Solstice, the Roman
nose and will bending to the love
of Jesus and his words, a birth
reminding us of ours and those we love.

God shines no matter what we do;
the rose as sweet no matter the name.

Christmas spirit in a song or in a game!

Fun with Dad, because he so believed.
Shining paths for those we raise, it’s
theirs this canvas to paint, but
the wreath…

The wreath is a pre-religion relic
of the un-named God.

We are infants once.  We look up,
explore the five senses developing a
ready sixth that celebrates Christmas.

The staunch Jewish temple bows
to fresh greenery and lights.  The warmth
of the fire driving away the cold of night!

The Muslim heart as full as mine as
we reduce the height and all of life
to now.

God, Jehovah, One truth and bright.

By any other name we find
Constantine’s invention of a birthday
party in the middle of winter fun
like a brisk wind’s flowing kite, or
a clown’s smile at the speed of the clock

ticking away at bodies while the spirit soars.

We cannot escape the wind or the rain;
the cold an annual dance to make
us cuddle toward the sun.

We place a red coat on our back, smile
and celebrate Christmas—

the wreath on the kite of the clown’s
winter mask, rolling toward eternity.

The only place age cannot bother me

They’re Animals

20 Wednesday Dec 2017

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

Believe me.

Anyone not white and Trump receives
Trump’s distrust and spit—
his dentures about to hit

The screen wet with his slime, the
great mob line:

Believe me.

“Forget about it…”

So, I cheated to beat a woman,
I beat them all the time, except
I call it sex.

Sex with me is great—

Believe me.

***

On the other side, the Democrats
are holier than thou in another way,
touting clichés like “fighting for the
middle class so your kids can go
to college.”  Might as well bow down
to the false god, money, once and for
all.

Student debt?  National debt?

Samuel’s kings rear their heads again;
we kicked God out so many years ago,
it’s hard to remember or imagine what
it would be like to live day to day,
only God and/or Higher Power guiding
us.

We used to say “thanks” more, until we
decided we not God, were providing
everything…

Believe me.

***

I saw a man shitting on the sidewalk
yesterday.  Yes, I was in L.A.

I heard the mayor was at the Dodger
game, touting some art project, funding
parties with plenty of beer and more
money to western medicine’s grip
on “health” monopolies and of course
to the public zoo.

John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were
not saints.  But they tried.  What would they
say to illegal fireworks for the 4th of July?

What would they say to funding a zoo with
tax revenue?

What would they say to the government
paying doctors to inspect you for
areas to snip, tear and cut?

When was the last time a lawmaker looked
up the word “health” and/or defined
it themselves?

Wouldn’t that be a smart step before
neglecting infrastructure spending in
favor of one white coat definition?

Drugs, needles and scalpels cutting and
intruding on the body God gave me is
not health, by my standard.

I’m weird, I’m Christian Scientist—
a faith healer.  A true believer.

Most of the time!

Believe me!!!

***

Donald Trump ragged on an El
Salvadoran “gang” today—called them
all “animals!!”

He called a black NFL player who kneeled
in protest during the U.S. government
anthem a “son of a bitch.”

What’s Donald Trump?

Did he skip, like many professed Christians
the part in Jesus’ teaching about not
judging?

Did Adams, Jefferson and the rest do
so when they conceived of the judiciary
branch of government with all its
judges?

I am a Christian man living in a land
whose courts are Jewish.

Believe me!!

***

The CIA killed Oscar Romero, too?

Or did they just back the side that did
it?

They covered their tracks?

Are “secrets” something a democracy should
ever support?

Have you ever looked at the CIA mission?

Did you know they were officially
founded in 1947 at Truman’s White
House, in a ruse cloak and dagger
ceremony?

Was that supposed to be funny?

Have you looked at their Twitter bio
blurb?

Did you study the murder of Kennedy,
or did you decide to trust our government
because you didn’t have the time?

E. Howard Hunt, Frank Sturgis of the CIA
led a group of pissed off skillful anti-Castro
Cubans and shooters from Miami to Dallas
in November of 1963, and killed our
president in front of his wife and millions
on Abraham Zapruder’s camera.

Believe me.

***

We litter land routinely in Los Angeles and
other American cities because we don’t care.

We kicked out the native people, who cared.

So maybe we should invite back the native
people, to help us care.

God, help us to care!!!

Believe in God!!!

***

My father winked to God before he
let his body die, I’m sure of it.

***

What if CIA just collected some
good information so that our leaders could
make good decisions?

What if our armies learned real Defense?

Sought more and more non-lethal approaches?

Took a page from the East, and learned the
Tao Te Ching and martial arts—meant not to kill
or be violent, but as a way of restoring peace
and balance when disrupted?

***

Honoring your parents is still a good
way to live a long time.  Try it!!

***

Remove the concrete and boards beneath
your feet, travel to a new place.

Remember our connection to Earth; each
other.  The animals…

MS-13 are animals, indeed, Mr. Trump.
As are you.  As I am—we, all of us,
fools while we think that it is
us the human, with the power—

Trump the king!

Believe me!!!

The fool needs a king to fool; the
king needs no one, so he thinks—

And Samuel scratches his head, wishing
he never made that trip for the people
to announce to God their defection.

Our defection.

We’re all animals!!!

Believe me.

Perfection

Violence by Disney on Christmas

18 Monday Dec 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Disney, Joy, Love, Peace, Star Wars

Star Wars1

Someone must push back, even if
the push sounds violent, when the thing
against which you push is

Violence by Disney on Christmas.

The happiest place on earth got into
movies years ago; laughing, feeling,
we loved Bambi, Dumbo, Cinderella

and the seven dwarfs!

But now, to make a quick buck, and to
move half-dead crowds in need of ministry
they come to us with Star WARS.

Lasers and swords, shooting bombs and
killing for your Christmas consideration.

Hey, it’s America, so have at it, Hoss!

But to the Christian I’ll say call yourself
one by turning the other cheek to violence,
bowing to God and loving your enemy.

We believe in One God, accept the metaphor
that is the Force, but couldn’t we celebrate
it and side stories after the New Year?

Constantine, the Eastern Romans and the
Catholic Church so cleverly gave us a
date during the Solstice to celebrate
Jesus’ birthday, so I’ll be doing that,
preparing gifts to leave at his feet, as the
wise men did—I think it’s neat!

But if you, instead of wreaths and aromatic
green, wish to glorify weapons of war,
say that one side won when standing over
death and destruction—

you have not read the Tao Te Ching.

Have not held the gospel to your heart.

You did not need it yet, so good for you
and God bless us in our ignorance!

Disney used to keep it family and sweet,
avoid extreme violence and killing.

Star Wars used to come out in May, allow
us to take a break from Summer heat
to see some crazy fantasy action…

Then one day they merged, blew up
Christmas—or have tried to—

All because an accountant somewhere
reported the returns would be great!

I’ve traveled long and far in my little
47 times around the sun, enough to know
that money is okay, but no other
currency yields better contented sleep
as Peace of Mind.

Peace.  Star Peace…

Hopefully, in theaters soon

Colors

18 Monday Dec 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

And dreams and things.
Boom, the threshold, then…

There’s a signpost up ahead:
“All the things you used to dream”—
Break through!

Oh what a coup for you, this chance,
a dream returned, six senses sounding
and feeling and singing their properties
in noses of gold, roses behold!

Smells and sights, a dream in delight,
what supposes is and imagine that—

A fact!!

“The sweetest dream labor knows,” says
Frost, what a poet and indeed when visited
by rhyme and scheme sweet you know it!!

On this earth are arrangements perfect creating
choices to correct.  Yes, pick and choose, this one
for her this one for you, but choose wisely.

To choose “too much” is trouble, ask Willy
Wonka what happens to the greedy, six other
deadly sins keeping the white pearly gates of heaven
excellently white and pearly.

Good morning, Shirley!  Peanuts!  Strawberry!

To live every day as if it was your first!  To turn
a wreck of a day into a splendid hour, worth every
moment sour, just one minute to rejoice!  To
feel the ray of sunshine through the cloudy crack,
to spot the rainbow, the child’s smile, sparkle
apple pie, trees sharp—moon bright!!

Colors of spirit, perfect winning and growth where
winning’s a peace of mind and growth?

The kind we need’s what keeps us all
small as kids neat between sheets at bedtime:

grow in the mind.

Toward the child, more and more all the time

The Forgiveness Tree

08 Friday Dec 2017

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Forgiveness, Harassment, Joy, Love, Me Too, Me Too Movement, MeToo, Peace, Sexual Assault

Don’t load it up, it’s prone to
falling down, branches strong and true,
but even they wilt—

The song of childhood plays in the
ears of the Heaven-seeking; dream your
dreams, reach and achieve.

People, “brothers,” “sisters,” friends
who become better brothers and sisters
than blood bonds yield:

They snub you, cheat you, set you up and knock
you down.  Hurt, hit, hire or call on others
to hurt and hit.

You are on the ground and wonder as you
get stronger finally, “will I ever forgive
this transgression?”

Jesus said forgive your brother not seven
times but seven times seventy, or 490.  A lot of
times, but sometimes:

I wonder have I reached that threshold?
Do some hurts count as more, and so to
forgive them I get more credit?

I place it on the tree, forgiveness a great blessing
that can’t always happen overnight.  I water
that tree with prayer.

The best is still the one Jesus gave us, “Our
Father,” because it has so much forgiveness
in it.  “Forgive us, LORD, our trespasses

as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

And sun on this tree might be our willingness
to listen to love, to truth, to a whispering wind
that visits in the night,

Sometimes coming to us in dreams.

I return to the tree over the years, for sometimes
the hurt of error has lasted this long.  I stay willing
as sure as the sun it shines,

Even behind clouds it shines, I swear it! “Do not
swear,” reminds Jesus, and pray the prayer—water
running into wells made at planting.

Fertilize the spot by talking to other people about
your pain; perhaps they’ll have a story to share
with you that can help.

Forgive us LORD, our trespasses as we forgive
those who trespass against us.  Seven times seventy,
or 490 times.  Don’t count;

St. Ignatius of Loyola reminds us not to count:
“to give and not to count the cost.”  To forgive…
divine, to err “human,”

Alexander Pope poetic over words to Shakespeare
and Frost prophetic, Longfellow the men read
and quoted by men,

As men and women, sisters and brothers, friends
and family who do God’s will try to amend and
work through another day.

Poems smile the pause that made Frost famous,
with him it was a sigh: Something true, firm and
spectacularly fallible reaches

up on the horizon of best intentions:

The forgiveness tree is in full bloom, the flower green
but dewed and so golden as we turn another cheek
in God’s time not ours.

To abuse I shall never bow down, but to forgiveness’
open door I shall never close and lock for I want
Heaven’s gate open as well.

As a child, hoping, believing and as forgiving
as moths trapped in a flame.  Perhaps it was my
fault, and if not:

Stay away next time

Matoax

30 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Native, Native American, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Love, Nature, Peace

american-2029937_1280

Never in vain.

God keep me whole and pure
as I try to explain.

Words fail to describe the oneness
with falls, rocks, streams, and nature—
a people at one, praising in song,
movement and dance.

The hug with your land complete
on a shore invaded by armor.

British with Bible were a different
thing; in 1607, written on a Roman
guide, people came and Oneness died.

But not before a native princess kept
my people alive.

She came, first to save a captain,
then she visited us when in the Winter
of our wanderings we had run out
of warmth, food and all other
provisions needed to live.

Dead and left in the wind, until
Matoax and with her God came.

Native Great Spirit—the river of life,
warmth and skins, food and love.

We were dead in the Winter, beheaded
in a tent, our armor and fortress failed,
weapons of war useless.

She came to us, brought by God.

At the princess’ feet we prayed thanks;
she, at one with God.

Us, white and ignorant of the land,
the lowest of her ranks.

Trump Whispering

29 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Humor, Parody, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Politics

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Donald Trump, Trump

Puerto Rico is an island.

Nobody knew.  It was surrounded by
water… Still is, in fact!

You see, folks:

When land stops, water takes over.
Their country is such that it is like
a circle, maybe an oval or a long
donut without anything in the middle.
In fact, the land is the middle of the
donut, and the water is the outside,

like the cream in the center.

No, I don’t divide! We’re going to bring
America back, workers back, because that’s
what I am—I’m going to get rid of all
business regulations, bring coal back!

Clean coal!

Clean coal is like a donut.  Without the cream,
more like a Danish—which is in Scandinavia—
nobody knew!

So clean coal, untouched by Muslims—who
are like a day-old donut you buy at one
of those truck stops.

Those are my people.  The trucker, the worker.
You don’t see them taking a knee during
the national anthem.

They are at the rodeo drinking beer, and hot
dogs—which by the way, sounds pretty good
right now!

McCain hates dogs! Make America Great!

Stand for the anthem. Fake news and
radical Islam is killing us.

We should be friends with Russia!
It’s better to be friends! They stole
Crimea. They stole back their country.

It’s none of my business—I’m a business
man, politics is okay—I’m draining the Swamp!

Pocahontas!

Andrew Jackson was a saint!

Are you tired of winning? So what!

They say the English language is good.

I speak good. Say words no one else says,
and I say them in a way that makes America
great!

I’m sick of winning! And fake news! Look at
them taking pictures in the back!

Fake coal, real news, winning without rules,
bring back Andrew Jackson!

You hear that?

It’s a trail of cheers! That’s how I got an
A on every test. I was a great student;
better than these other guys.

Believe me!

Puerto Rico is in our country, you say?
Well. Maybe.

But it is an island. Very hard to get to, if you…
Here, look at the map.

It’s mostly blue.  Then there’s this tiny bit of
orange and green—that’s the land.

So, Puerto Rico is special—their people
very special, and they are tough and
we will get through this thing.

And women!! Very special.  I love women.

Very special to me.  I’m glad they are
speaking out—I love to watch them speak.
When their lips move, I feel like kissing
them!  And believe me, they kiss back!

I’m winning! Are you tired of winning? Take
our country back for white—for workers!

Like Russia.  They just took back
what was theirs, let’s be friends—

Fake news!!

Anger and Alcohol

22 Wednesday Nov 2017

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcohol, Joy, Love, Peace, Truth

We muddle life’s glory—that
which inspires gratitude!

We aren’t satisfied with the way
things are.  So we ferment the truth

until it springs fire, the grape
alone no longer good enough!!

“Let it spoil!”  Yes, let it rot—then
we take the poison and waste it not.

We mix it around, get high, build
Babel from the ground, the apple

and the orange—nothing compared
to altered states, it takes us away

we think to another place of love.

Meantime the Devil has us burrowed
in our drink, so much so that we lose

the power to think.  Wide is destruction’s
path, and we are on it when we steal

God’s righteous wrath!  We say
“it’s okay.  I deserve to be this mad.”

We justify burning cells in our brain;
alcohol distilled to kill the hard part

of being alive, missing its purpose
to perfect its diabolical roll—becoming

a false god before you look up—addicted,
we bow to the flames before many die.

Pick yourself up.  Which is worse, the drug
or the anger bug?  When not drinking,

the alcoholic lashes out.  We take it as
Christians, turn the other cheek.

Forgive.

It is tempting to wrath back at wrath,
but it does no good, two wrongs never

adding up to Right, the only path a tough
one into the forgiving moon of night.

Sorrow sinks, the sunrise brews on our
worst fears.  Breaks suddenly through!

Feeewww.  It’s good to resist the devil.

But first, we must know who he is.

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