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Category Archives: Poetic Blog

Aloe

30 Wednesday May 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Earth, Heaven, Joy, Love, Overcoming, Peace, Peace of Mind, Poems, Poetry, Truth

I can’t remember the last time I
saw my green ivy, up the walk
along the steps, the rocks of
my entry, smiling saying “hello.”

One night a neighbor sprayed
poison on them, ‘cause that’s
where I live!  Los Angeles, the city,
“civilization” without sidewalk
security,

litter on the streets.

Crime and lack of care, but
there… There we are, finances
have you where you are for now,
trying to make the best of what is…

There were a couple aloe cacti
on the rocks, as well—and when the
ivy died, taking away my green,
the aloe grew, started to take over.

Something there is that doesn’t
love ivy-killing spray, rises up
in the fray, becomes the ship staying
the course in the spray—

they tell you to walk away, to
not see your uncle buried at
Arlington with full honors but
you go anyway.

The orange of the flower replaces
the green of ivy goodness, as we return
home every day.

The hate cannot steal the hope and
its neverending growth and ray,
the devil a coward when you call him
out, then Decide.

Ahh, he hates a decision as you
stay your own path against the tide.

Self-doubt, used to be their shouts,
you block it out and advance on
heaven, a narrow walk for only
certain, chosen soldiers who look to
left and right, even dangerously behind
to help another onto the trail
before we die triggering eternal life.

Aloe Vera is tougher than the poison
as is to death life.

Accepting my Balls

29 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Acceptance, Anatomy, Blog, Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Acceptance, Aging, Atheism, Balls, Birches, God, Joy, Love, Nature, Peace, Power, powerless, Robert Frost, Spirituality, Truth

As I see and feel balls sagging
from right to left, left to right,
I like to think someone’s been
swinging them.

But swinging them doesn’t bend
them down to stay.   Nature does
that.  Time, age: you wake up, and
your rocks dropped.

***

This can be a sad event, and was
for me, especially when I felt
nothing much happened in my
youth, no great wear and tear

that would leave an item or thing
stretched out or overused,
necessitating the sag, precipitating
a change, a drop, the swing—

Sad!!

I turned thirty years old, and
they dropped.

It was not at the brink of death,
closing in on very old age but
thirty years in, thirty times around
the sun, and they sagged!!!

I wrote several books, a screenplay,
thought of all different ways not
to think of my sagging rocks;

wrote about kids, a Kids World,
figured I was done so give the world
over to the tight-balled and perky
youths, think of myself less and less,
that’s it the ticket is to be more and
more Selfless!

***

That didn’t work, and I stayed depressed,
did the twelve steps on the problem
at last, and it went away for a time, the
depression about sagging—but then it
came back with a vengeance!

***

Then one day, it went away.  I accept
my sagging balls because they’re here
to stay.

What’s more, I’m powerless over them,
my age, and this rock spinning through space,
giving me cool ideas to write as long as
I walk on her and thank.

The best way out of a good depression
is to do nothing, wait for it to pass,
accept all things and Thank.

Redemption

28 Monday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Amends, Blog, Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Redemption

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amends, Love, Peace, Recovery, Restitution, Retribution, Slavery, Truth

A song of chains precedes any
of freedom.

We must state our cause, stake
our place in goal and dream

before the winds of change make
us more than we seem,

the perfect beings that for days
and weeks of life cannot

be supported—even the strongest
beams, gone are the memories

of the true line, until instead of
the flammable drink,

we humbly on paper or screens
opine!

God give us a soul, a season, a path
under foliage and civilization’s
litter on the head of first peoples and
nations we in Europe so arrogantly
bestowed.

Could it be that we escaped a way of
life over there, in our old world, only
to force that way on this American land?

I sound mad, but am only trying to report
the problems with the sound

above our homes, the helicopter hell
and siren fort—

1607 the British in armor seeking fame,
riches and glory.

We may have gotten them; but at what
cost?  And is there any going back to
make amends, to balance things,

to redeem our forefathers who often
forgot to slow down, breathe, and thank
God for our land before stealing more?

There must be, if the slave song
can make us free.

Geocracy

28 Monday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Earth, God, Nature, Plog, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Earth, Geocracy, God, Love, Nature, Peace, Political, Politics, Truth

I’ve never seen a person rule
during an earthquake.

Where is democracy, “people-rule”
during a hurricane?

Democracy is a fallacy, a beyond bold
toward egocentric self-will run riot,
as the alcoholics say.

We have some power, human
beings can lift, exercise, work—
do some things, but the limits—
our limits blare at times, enough
so that we’d be wise in politics to

leave space for what we cannot do.

The effort to keep God out of
American politics, calling Concept
Religion.

We have been confused, led onto
the wide path of war and deception,
covert acts and destruction by an
entity some call Satan, others “evil,”

me?  It doesn’t really matter.

***

God, Earth, People rule might be
more reflective of truth and interesting;

God, Earth and People rule, call it
Geocracy with a capital G.

To reflect the things we can do,
that which we cannot; to recognize
higher and greater powers than us, at
times, to tell the truth.

***

Humility is knowing one’s place,
nine out of ten of us outside our
lines, scrambling to turn a Christmas
list into a nursery rhyme, nothing
fully fitting with the next, until we fall
and scrape our chin bad enough to
change.

You must want it.

***

The war hawks frown; the atheists stir,
and semantics has the angry adult down
and out while the child looks on, not
as full with words but without them True.

People can rule sometimes, give it to us
one out of three.

We will be a healthier world and nation
the moment we officially recognize the
other great powers that govern us.

Write it down, right the frown, turned
to the upside—

Do less, and things get done;

Lao Tzu and the spiritual masters knew
how little we could control.

And God made the heavens and the
Earth; and it was good.

The stories, the words, they run out of steam;
things just are, let them be.

Place the Earth and Higher Power
somewhere at the political discussion
table; leave space, watch the glory
of all we didn’t do,

and all that because we held back
could be.

Prepare for Peace

26 Thursday Mar 2015

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Military, Peace, Police

Peace13

Police, paramilitary and Military training
that I’ve seen forget a key
course, the most important lesson
of all to take into the world:

Knowing what to do if no one
or nothing is wrong.

If all is quiet, no crimes are being
committed, no borders breached:

DO YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO
IN TIMES OF PEACE?

I fear (prayer the remedy)—better yet,
it concerns me, the gung ho nature
of violent training, “preparing for war”
and “violent criminals shooting their
guns.”

As depicted in Apocalypse Now and
W. Bush carrier landings, the hoopla
and hype and “excitement” to go to war,
to use training to kill

is sick.

But that’s okay God love you anyway,
just learn how to organize twenty-four
hours of Peace. Difficult, I know!!

Takes an alcoholic at war with himself for years
to understand the compulsion
to seek and destroy, to find some “safe
place” apparently made safe by guns
all around you, but then you forget Jesus
who said “live by the gun, die by the gun”—

you’re painting a target on your heads sons
and daughters…

***

I know he said “sword” not gun, by the
way I’m not totally dumb, I used
to be scared and run, and figure that
if I “got you” before you “got me”—
well, then, I was living…

Ten percent of those who go into
police and military should be trained
for the worst.

The other ninety, give’em to me, to
Peace, to helping other nations, ours,
to being of service.

You have to learn to take one on the cheek,
and give them the other one to hit,

BECAUSE THAT IS REALLY SECURING

World Peace, friends

Divorce

31 Friday Oct 2014

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Divorce, God, Joy, Love, Marriage, Peace, Separation

The disease of more grabs us late
at night, convincing us there’s
something better out there than what we have.

Women and men chase their tails
and other men and women around
in circles risking jail cells, nut houses
and all that rhymes with misery and
broken dreams.

Sexual security is on the line, “the right
to choose” so powerful and inviting
so why can’t I go back on a promise?

Abuse is another thing. Child safety
and your own as we leave in quiet
darkness before he comes back home.

“I’ve had it with her binges,” he says.
Conveniently, he’s met somebody else.

The grass is never greener on the other
side, just vulnerable to the elements
as much as any other grass.

Children bearing the brunt, finding
ways to understand including drugs and
alcohol, the suicidal thoughts streaming
in with other questions about my existence.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be. I was not
meant to be.” They left me….

Ha!!! I cringe when they ask on buses or
trains, “Where are your parents?” Maybe I’ll
make up a story that they live happily
in my heart. I’ll make it true by decorating
the grave of my alcoholic imagination until
revived, I walk out of the plot to
haunt poetry readings with humor and
good cheer, because…

Because I am proof that Mom and Dad were
here, and in me they were never divorced,
cannot be.

“Man cannot separate what God has bound
together.” My parents are not divorced, and so
when asked for now on about the status
of my earthly creators, I shall say with that
Frostian sigh: “Married these fifty years. Struggling
to see it in a long imagist vacation into ‘Mo Betta’, the
disease of more and other people, places and things.
Festus and Bacchus, the Devil’s black hole.”

For ages hence I’ll say: here I am

“Portrait of David” by J.F. Hendry

09 Wednesday Apr 2014

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

J.F. Hendry, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Scottish, Scottish Poetry

Out of a lightning void who clutched blue rivers
Spins a shell-flower head on sea-screened floors.
An echo coils an ear in Fingal’s Cave
Along whose flickering shores he plucked his eyes
And hirples lighthouse space down pebbled chin.

His frowning knuckles doubling are the rainbow
Clenching fists of cloudy Scottish thunder.
Ribs, once wrecked ships sunk on a broken beach,
Now swell a chest of treasure in screw sand, or
Blast a southron air with Highland spleen.

Sabre-toothed, the tiger Hebrides thrust
And parry sea.  The sleeping lipline pins
On space awakened purpose, is a mastodon.
A gnarled kneecap, or an elm down a glen,
Forge spring-knots for the kilted saunterers.

Out of the dark-green jar who grasped light arching,
Hoards electric sun in branching arms.
The mottled trunk-one, wrenched from silver birch,
Remembers brindling Cluny in a Braemar storm,
Fire-talk, venison, we happy winterers.

cave1

“Inverbeg” by J.F. Hendry

08 Tuesday Apr 2014

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

J.F. Hendry, Joy, Love, Peace, Poetry, Scotland, Scottish Poetry

Sliced with shade and scarred with snow
A mountain breaks like Mosaic rock
And through the lilt of mist there flow
Restless rivers of pebble, pocked
And speckled, where moss and the centuries grow.

Tree, married to cloud as stem is to feather,
Branches and straddles the convex of sky
Death is aflame in the bracken where heather
Rears semaphore smoke into high
Blue messenger fire through soundless weather.

Below, like bees, the ivies swarm,
Cast in leaping veins, their trunk, a crippled
Animal of thighs pounced from loch-water, storms
The slated shores of the past into ripples
Interpreting man’s fretted cuneiform.

loch1

“Ardlogie, Christmas Eve, 1939” by Douglas Young:

08 Tuesday Apr 2014

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Douglas Young, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Scottish

winter flowers2

The mild midwinter evening ebbs, leaving
wreckage of gold and purple on the hill.
The full round moon sails up from eastward, cleaving
dim veils of star-split cloud, tenuous and still.

Winter has jewels yet, leaf, flower, and berry,
berberis, holly, crab, and many more;
wych-hazels’ golden straps, a starry cherry,
primroses, heaths, a purple hellebore.

There’s a viburnum by the porch, some vagrant
botanist found in Western Yunnan.
It’s flowering now, exquisitely fragrant,
waxy white umbels, scent of marzipan.

Moon-white the naked beeches tower, wreathing
lichened limbs above the laurel glooms;
beyond the lawn a ground-air faintly breathing
stirs the white torches of the pampas plumes.

About me as I walk an odour lingers
of cypress logs I sawed; the pungent scent
clings in my tweeds, and when I raise my fingers
I get the resinous smell, and am content.

Cock-pheasants from the neighbouring pinewood chortle,
a blackbird whistles from the red-twigged lime.
There’s enough pleasure here for any mortal
with eyes, ears, nose, this mild midwinter-time.

“Emergence” by Sara Berkeley Tolchin

17 Monday Mar 2014

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Ireland, Irish, Irish Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sara Berkeley

Piano Beach1

It was there all along, great peace,
I wear it again, I turn around in it.

What changes inside when the spark lights,
the fizz of a match coming up,
candles growing their yellow robes.

Curled up cottonball alone and warm,
at sea, rowing sporadically,
it feels like shipwreck and being found,
it feels like round rings falling into round.

On Limantour beach
I pay for concealment with dollars of sand,
birds fly the razor breaks of the waves,
I can find what I placed in the dark
I can dive by the light of Venus.

I like where I am sitting now,
but at your door I got shy,
left after knocking lightly.
One day you might hold me

in your piano hands
life all arpeggios and resolving chords.

***

©Sara Berkeley, from Strawberry Thief (2005, Gallery Books)

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