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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Category Archives: Poems

Borderless

11 Monday Nov 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amends, Freedom, Joy, Love, Native, No Borders, Peace, Truth, Youth

Borderless1

The spirit of God, wisdom
and truth cascading down, wordless
and real.  Life, Creation, in a baby’s
eyes upon waking—

What are borders?

“Good fences make good neighbors,”
said Robert Frost, and Jesus?

Only God is good.  I’m a polytheist,
a student of the Bible but, more
recently, taken with foot on soil,
appealing to nature,

I’m into the Native American
Great Spirit.

No borders, no words, we appeal
in dance, song, movement,
see answers in light, comfort,
warmth, and our daily bread.

The infant cares not about
borders, nor I.  A bit of boundary
between them and I is good,
as long as we’re willing to tear
it down in need.

Kindness is universal, morality
within us all to know.

That’s why when it comes time
to make amends for harms in
our past by us or our ancestors,
I say don’t hesitate but Go…

Missy

11 Monday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Dogs, Loss, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Dogs, Friendship, God, Joy, Loss, Love, Memorial, Nature, Peace

Missy

The soul calls us to love.
Missy and Charlie were nameless
dogs on the street when I found them,
and I picked them up, put them in
the car, took them home, bathed them
with my friend, cut their mattes out,
took them to the vet, assessed their
age, checked for microchips, named
them, spayed and neutered them.

I wanted to give them up after
all that because we already had two
dogs at home, but my friend, whose
house I lived in, said I could leave
anytime I wanted—

but the dogs were staying.
Mini-schnauzers, Missy and Charlie,
brother and sister, lovers, friends,
co-survivors of homelessness in
dirty “Los Angeles.”

How else can a land be that was
sacked by Spain, Mexico, then
the British USA?  We put roads,
concrete, asphalt and European
civilization over a paradise
natives called Otsungna, the
place of the roses.

Too stressful a place, in the end,
for Missy—who was high-strung anyway.
She lived to lick, run and play, had a
strong appetite until she got struck
with epilepsy.

I see her running in circles around
us walking, boundless energy
and love from God.

I used to tell her and her
brother, “The LORD made you,
you know that?”  I saw in their
eyes the light of God, Creation
itself, innocence and honesty.

We are all brothers and sisters
from the same seed.

Missy lives where she always lived:
in the heart of Spirit, love,
licking life up to two hundred times
a day!

Give all you got to life, and you
never need to mourn the loss
of a friend that did the same.

Piracy Under the Cross

11 Monday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Colonialism, Imperialism, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Racism, USA

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Britain, Catholic Church, Christianity, Colonialism, Crime, Joy, Love, Missionaries, Murder, Native, Native Americans, Peace, Pirates, Pope, Rape, Spain

Crusade1

It’s never too late to make amends.
To make a change, to recognize
the humanity of native peoples…

The British and Spanish, among others,
came to a land across the sea,
sized it up, coveted and stole.

Piracy under the Cross.

“Fine people on both sides”
tout the greatest democracy
on earth while Native Americans
remain locked up on land
we cast them to so we could
rape and reap the benefit
of their inheritance.

How many white people in
North America live on and
benefit from stolen land?
Armed theft in 1607 is an
at-large crime with victims
today.

Genocide and removal are
the ways of the “greatest
democracy in the world.”

Add to that slavery, promising
to pay the slaves after a war,
not paying the slaves after
the war as promised.

Visit Skid Row in Southern
California’s Lost Angeles,
a place I call Otsungna, the
native name… the place of
the roses until the Spanish
came with bibles and guns
to conquer, convert and kill.
There you see in black and
white, mostly black—the neglect
and invalidity of the USA,
a government founded in racism,
religionism, slavery, violence
and lies.  African Americans
brought in cages and chains,
released from bondage in 1865
without land, entitlement,
ownership, but “you are free
so enjoy your nearest slum…”

These sins and crimes still
fester; they are not less sins
and crimes because they were
long ago.

Health depends on honesty
and clean living;

For that reason, I have removed
myself from the supposed
“United States of America,”
a British experiment gone wrong.

The Greatest Democracy in the World

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in America, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, USA

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Native, Native American, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Truth, USA

USA Rotting3

They pitched me a lie in school
and on screen that we were
a great country based on our
president, government and
election-based “democracy.”

That was before I started
actually studying facts.  Native
Americans were not a part
of the 1776 British experiment,
and usurping colonists usurped.

There is a great country the
farcical, violent, usurping USA
doth claim, beautiful lands,
all free to roam until
the Europeans came to conquer.

People-rule is always silly,
I mean who of us rules during
a hurricane, forest fire or
earthquake?  No government
is valid if based on just humans!

Geocracy would serve better,
God, Earth and People-rule—
call it a merging of cultures
and ideas.  The U.S. Constitution
is a dry, secular mess for the rich.

The Iroquois Confederacy finally
found paper and ink after years
of oral records, and the great
difference between it and the
British rebel one is Great Spirit—

or, if you will, Higher Power
recognition.  Their meetings
asked for blessings from
Nature and Earth—from the Great
Creator called Great Spirit.

Humility is good, a slow-moving
fact above Mexico and below
Canada.  Vikings and English
conquerors, inspired by Roman
lust for foreign land, plague us.

That hotbed of invasion for thousands
of years in Europe created quite
a scary arsenal of horrible, loud,
destructive weapons and forces
to kill other human beings.

As Lao Tzu pointed out, we
cannot change the world, but
in telling the truth about it,
we make the good Dickensian,
Mrs. Chickian effort.

Imagine if Wyatt Earp let the
gangs run towns, or if a sober
writer let the descendants
of violent land theft call the USA
the greatest democracy in the world.

It is not, nor should it be.
There is a Higher Power in charge,
and that is still knowledge for
the wide path to grab while
the narrow hopes for heaven.

Talgarth Graves

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Britain, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Talgarth, Wales

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Britain, Conquest, Joy, Love, Native, Native America, Native Americans, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spain, Talgarth, Truth, Wales

Talgarth17

I went home over the Summer
to Talgarth, Wales in the mountains
of Breconshire.

There I walked land no one stole.
There I felt a connection to the land
and people, the name Watkins,
along with Davis, Thomas, Hughes
and Evans dotting graves at the
churchyard of St. Gwendoline’s…

Some graves need work, and I shall
return to work them, remember
our fathers and mothers so forgotten
when a slew of Talgarth’s sons and
daughters fled to an old world
we called new because white people
hadn’t before Columbus, Raleigh
and Smith seen it.

We vainly usurped the land before
Spain or other usurpers could,
committed armed theft over the
course of hundreds of years,

now call the British colonists’
experiment in government of
the 18th century the “greatest
democracy in the world.”

Not so for Native Americans,
or the slaves we brought to work
stolen land, promised to pay
them after the Civil War,
only to renege and continue
to preach about the Greatest
Democracy in the World.

Great on the surface for people
escaping responsibilities and
lives in Europe, such as my
ancestors, who obviously left
Dad and Grandpa’s graves to
the wind in Talgarth, Wales, so
we could go across an ocean
and steal.

The first Thanksgiving Proclamation
of 1676 was a prayer of
thanks to God for killing
off Native Americans so efficiently
with disease and in-fighting.

The natives had a message of
gratitude for the land, wisdom
and peace—

Something our bible and gun-
toting ancestors cared nothing
for, unfortunately.

Global Warming arrived in 1492,
solidified in 1607 with John
Smith and other English people
calling native Wingandacoa
Virginia, its first successful
robbery being “Jamestown”
named after a Scottish king
who unified Britain and tore
apart Native America without
a care, because those naked,
brown, content people were
not “Christian.”

Where did Jesus say it’s good
to leave your fathers’ graves,
sail across an ocean and steal
other human beings’ land?

Jesus said truth, Gospel, glory
to all that’s High for his teaching,
but his message would be
better served if we treated foreign
people with love, respect—
totally free of judgment.

The United States is a farce
built on stolen land, violence
and lies.

The land, though, thrives, and
I dream to return to it after
fixing the graves of Talgarth.

God forgive us our sins, help
us to amend mistakes and errors
to truly pave the way not
just for a biblical second coming,

but for a more full, complete
spirituality enhanced by the experience
of Native people, whose Great Spirit
is love and peace,

Glorious creation, the Waterfall
their bible,

Something they taught on deaf ears
until a day I hope soon, when
white people from Europe open
them up to hear.

All Guns Are Wrong

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Gun Control, Guns, Murder, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, March for Our Lives, Mass Shootings, Murder, Never Again, NRA, Peace, USA

Gun1

Many split hairs about
murder and killing, call
a loud canon firing lethal
bullets in the air at other
human beings “self-defense.”

Some appeal to the supposed
authority of a flawed U.S.
government and constitution,
covering every manner of sin
with their rights to be wrong.

All guns are wrong.

Gun powder from Asia
they say, so many years ago,
Europeans jammed up in
space and competition, Romans
taking over a while, the British
and Spanish learning the bible
alongside their firearms,

off to conquer the non-
Christian world, as if some
good and Christ-supported right…

All guns are wrong.

They are loud, and proper
martial artists of self-defense
abhor them.

They are wrong.

The animals in nature cringe
against them.

They are wrong, and are
displeasing to the Great
Creator, who I am sure loves
peace for the maximum number
of people as is possible.

They are wrong, are for cowards,
for people afraid of life,
so much so they become
bedeviled into taking it
away from others.

All guns are wrong—

The obnoxious, fearful coward’s
way of life to blow things up
and edge out God.

Mi Familia Mexicana

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Bilingual, Español, Family, Mexico, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, San Miguel de Allende, Spanish

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Family, Joy, Love, Mexico, Native, Peace, Poem, Poema, Poesia, Poetry, San Miguel de Allende, Spanish

Me and Mexico1

When you rise in the morning,
think yourself in the hills,
a Spanish rancho set in
Guanajuato, Mexico—

San Miguel de Allende
a place of magic, as time
suspends… Cobblestone
streets and the colors of
Dream’s wild dance in
February or May, it doesn’t
much matter—

This is… Mi familia Mexicana.

Jesus said “Family are those
who do the will of God,”

La voluntad de Dios, pero,
te pregunto ahora:

¿Que es el nombre de tu Dios
personal?

Lo mío cambia, y soy sin duda
un politeísta… Que tengo mi
biblia, y la estudio mucho,

Pero, mis amigos y familia,
¿Que del mundo indígena?

No teníamos para mucho tiempo,
libros, palabras escritos ni impresas,

y había un Dios en esa época
y ahora.  Sin palabras, sin saber
ni una sencilla, solitaria cosa:

un Dios está, tal vez El Gran
Espíritu, como se llama en
El Norte, esa tierra nombrado
por Ingleses y Españoles
algo Europeo—pero ¿cual es correcto,
el nombre para tierra y dioses
de la gente de la región natural con
historia de miles de años…

O los nombres que usaron Europeos
con armas y biblias, nombres de
una tierra robada?

Mi familia Mexicana sabe la respuesta;
no hay naciones, fronteras en
el corazón de cariño y amor.

Haciendo la voluntad del dios de
su propio comprensión… Libertad…

Amor sin condición, bailando con
mariachis en el Jardín de San Miguel,
gente de las montañas, caballos
y burros de Dios nos sirviendo humilde
y sencillo, la sonrisa de todos niños
de cualquier color o “raza…”

Es, señores, y señoras…

Mi familia Mexicana.

All Better

09 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Belief, Faith, Health, Inspiration, Inspirational, Joy, Love, Mental Health, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Positive Thinking, Positivism

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Belief, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Faith, Health, Inspirational, Joy, Longfellow, Love, Mary Baker Eddy, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Positive Thinking, Positivism

Health1

In the Mary Baker Eddy spirit,
rising in lines hopefully,
as an Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet:

I have overcome all illness,
God is here, and for you too—
We are all better, no complaints!

If we pause and doubt, cringe
and dip low in thoughts
We indeed worship Pain not joy,

We hoist “Cancer” up, some ailment
we raise until it becomes king.
Abolish that horrid monarch now;

Force abdication by your positivity;
the way you think is by God known,
So build today then, strong and sure

With Longfellow’s firm and ample base,
ponder not because you cannot
see Higher Power that it fails,

Or that some form of loving God
does not exist!  It’s in us, our healthy
loving thoughts!  So be with me

Pure in thought today, skip
rooms and offices to drop our
hundreds on white coats and insurance

gambles and gambits.  Walk the trail…

Believe.

Wingandacoa

09 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Native, Native America, Native American, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Britain, Conquest, Imperialism, John Smith, Love, Native, Native America, Native American, Nature, Peace, Pemisapan, Poem, Queen Elizabeth, Sir Walter Raleigh, Treachery, Truth, Vanity, Violence, Virginia, Wingandacoa, Wingina

Wingandacoa1

There was a name for a place.
It was named how it was named
for a reason, thousands of years
of tradition, story, repetition and
heritage made that place special,
its people living, dying, circling
the earth in spirit and land—

Gratitude for the water, the food,
the abundance and song.

Then came the British white man,
who was vain and violent enough
to change the name of the place
at a glance because its inhabitants
were not Christian, bible-toting or
“advanced” enough in war (cowards)
to carry and use loud, destructive
firearms—

the kind that still kill in malls,
churches, streets and schools today.

The British white man called this
land “Virginia,” after their virgin
queen Elizabeth.

Vanity.  Violence.  Usurpation…

To first usurp the Bible and Christ
for violent land acquisition.

Then to usurp the land itself…

Wingandacoa lives and breathes;
is the place I cherish and maintain
in my heart one of abundance,
native beauty and tradition.

No Roman-influenced conquest by
a people bedeviled by war and
violent competition with other
European nations can change
the essence of a place, unless
one yields to untruth.

I do not and call the land
where John Smith landed:

Wingandacoa.

The Red Rose of Celaya

09 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Mexico, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Romance, San Miguel de Allende, Sports, Travel

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amor, Bilingual, Bullfight, Celaya, Cristina Sanchez, Joy, Love, Mexico, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spain, Spanish, Story, Torera, Travel

Red Rose3

Anthony was our leader,
other friends.

We set out on foot and by
bus to Celaya from San
Miguel de Allende, the
year 1995—the quest
to watch a female bullfighter
fight.

Cristina Sánchez, torera
Española, beautiful, strong
and proud.

Graceful, too—a show-woman,
showing up the men and
bulls alike,

her signature move to tire
the bull in a dance of
deception, then go to her
knees while ripping open her
vest to show the bull world
that she was a woman.

A woman in the man’s domain,
crossing over to show it could
be done.

***

I threw three red roses into
the ring that day.

The last one, my friend Mike
helped as Sancho Panza did
assist Don Quijote so dutifully:

We placed a simple business card
of mine that had my name, phone
number and address on it…
through the bottom of the rose,
poking a hole.

We jimmied the card up the stem,
and I threw the rose into the ring.

Cristina had picked up the other
two roses… fine.

With this third and final rose, she
bent, noticed the rose and
myself, the thrower—still
standing near ring’s edge,

and she did look at me and
smell the rose.

Her eyes smiled, and we parted
ways. She never called, but the
spirit knows what happened that
day.

And Anthony, who
just watched two crazy, romantic
young men act fools for love
shook his head.

His eyes did smile, too.

And we brought love and joy to
San Miguel and to Celaya that
day.

Que viva México.  Donde vive
fuerte que sé es adentro de
mi corazón, todavía aquí
palpitando, esperando su
llamada mientras bailo en
el Jardín con Los Mariachis
de Bonito Tecalitlán.

Guardo mi 200 pesos, y preparo
mi próxima rosa.

¡“Guadalajara,” por favor, Capitán!
¡Tengo 50 pesos, vamos a tocar
para Dios si Mismo!

Pero no, necesitan dinero los músicos
para vivir, entonces, paso mi gorra
allí al publico, y voy a ganar 200.

!Si, “Guadalajara” tocamos!  !Y La Negra
ya sigue!

Que viva México hoy y pa’ siempre.
Viva en este, mi sueño, mi poema,
mi rosa de hoy…

Es lo que recuerdo cuando recuerdo
Cristina Sánchez, torera Española,
La Rosa Roja de Celaya…

Oh, boy!!!!

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