Category Archives: Poetry

Addicted to Cars

27 Sunday Aug 2017

Posted by in Earth, Environment, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Going fast, what a blast, losing
our relationship with Earth seemed
such an innocent gas.

We burn her, Mother Nature already
on fire— “why not us,” you ask.

Given five senses, with an occasional sixth
that writes poems and other stuff:

We feel so few inside a speeding car,
you think you are doing so much—traveling
so far, but have really shut off your life

to the smells, sights, sounds and other feelings
of feet on ground, walking to and from
naked with truth—muscles at work, the body
moving, sweating fully alive.

But you would rather lock yourself in a
loud metal box and drive.

Concrete, metal and asphalt covering
Earth as you burn her, speeding past
experience, people to help, people to meet,
animals and attractions only available to
the feet.

Vroom, vroom, “I haven’t room room, for
this slowed down experience you write in your
poems, I gotta go!!!”

There is no better place than Heaven, taking steps
God gave us on the straight and narrow, those
on the path rooting for and welcoming those
on the scary Wide—

We cannot get there tense and flipping off
your neighbors as you drive.

Re-think cars, burning earth, being so loud the
crickets wanna die, Native American culture
squashed, first cultures and their ways of life—
Aborigines, Celts, tribal unity and Earth-led prayer
together with oneness and purity.

We love our Bible and Tao Te Ching, we love even
excuses that make us happy to turn the key on
our bright red metal thing—there it is so large
and loud in our concrete drive.

Ask if it pleases God, then decide a day that
puts you in touch with all Creation.

Locked in, locked away streaming by loudly
at high speeds, we miss too much, litter the
narrow path to heaven even while we clutch—

Let it go.  Walk.  And join me as I throw some trash
away.  Let us not defile ourselves with what we say
or do.

Give up some driving days, be more quiet,
and hear from God direct what it is we need to
be content in the land, clean it up—

Make everything fresh and new.

Big Bang Sex Theory

26 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexuality

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This is my sex confession, not yours.

It could never be, each person with
their own views of sex, what it’s for,
what it’s not for, how to do it, how often,
with who or not at all.

Celibacy is another thing, and would take
another poet to know it, I’ve only been on
its road a short time.

I prefer Big Yang to Big Bang, borrowing from
Lao Tzu’s yin and yang:

For there to be everything, there has to be
nothing.  Even Something, like a Universe,
requires Nothing to define it.

Big Bangers say there used to be nothing,
then Something blew up, made Everything.

Believe that, don’t believe that, believe
Adam and Eve and God creating all things
from Eden to the Adirondacks.

It doesn’t much matter, unless you are
one of the crazy ones running around saying
that men and women are the Higher Power.

Judgement, playing God, being #1, 2 and three
we put ourselves as number one, which among
other things leads us to a life of taking all we
want, Freud’s ID.

Mine, mine, mine, let’s conquer that there’s
a rush of going from her to her to her, planting
your flag down to show yourself and others what
a Conqueror you are.

You search sex for self-esteem and find yourself
reeling, wrecking homes, killing children with the
confusion of “Your mom and I are getting a
divorce.”

WTF.  Man can’t separate what God has bound, you
are right to put your head down, there are times
for frozen fake smiles, and times it’s better just
to accept that even Clowns drop and frown.

Turn around.  Talk to a friend.  Perhaps she or
he has spirituality, will help guide you through
the forest of iniquity into the land of fun-filled
virginity, God bless our sex to never hurt the
fabric of the universe.

God grant us fun of a kind that children can
respect and learn from, love that is forever,
Commitment to the wives of our youth, like
Solomon and Malachi advised.

Love is the answer that sex was trying to
supply.  Love, the answer, without it it might
be better to die.

USA Lol

25 Friday Aug 2017

Posted by in Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, America, Corruption, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political, USA

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Active as the sex instinct, the earth
moves, stars and sun—but compared
to what, my Uncle Les would remind,
relative to what.  Uncle Einstein.

As corrupt as any other “nation,” the
supposed United States of America was
founded on native blood, our original sin
blaring still: Racism.

We sized them up, the native race, compared
the size of our weapons, declared our
bible better than their Great Spirit, so…
justified murder and “removal.”

Andrew Jackson, a favorite of our low-
intellect president elect, he arrived through
shady means promising every hyperbole it
takes for fools to click the link on that email.

Our second sin of course was slavery, another
obvious racist endeavor, still killing national
unity with unenlightened forays into backwood
clan parties brought to light,

Ghosts of Civil Rights fights past coming to
life, brawls on the street, but that’s all
right.  After all, bringing us to Sin #3: the
CIA murdered Kennedy.

Amends and friends to make, we keep
ignoring truth on the wide path to Hell’s
Gate, assured by looking left and right that
Samuel’s request of God was still uptight.

“Give us a king to be like other nations,”
And that’s the USA, full of sin and problems
and beauty and blessings—just like every
other nation in the world.

Where we are funny is in our self-righteous
pity, we think we are so great, as Allen Dulles
is chosen to investigate and report on the
man who fired him, the Warren Commission

a ruse of far more don’ts than do’s.  A virtual
“who knows who” of what not to do, a total lie
supplying CIA a place to hide.  There it is.  No,
There!!  Hiding in your Twitter feed, trying

To recruit the next murder.

CIA Capture

Murder.  Cover-up.  Murder.  Cover-up,
The devil in a red, white and blue dress, what
a mess, the “nation” a joke since November 22,
1963, what a pity, Jackie’s PTSD, thank God

for sobriety, God help us admit our insanity.

“No matter how far down the wrong path you are
on… Turn around.”

There’s always a way to Peace of mind—
turn that national frown upside down, invite
God back to the throne Samuel took away,
give the natives back land, pay Africa-
descended people for past sins, and kick out

covert CIA.

USA… LOL, let’s together find more of the
narrow to heaven over the wide to Hell.

Formerly Suicidal

24 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Longfellow a poetic life coach, spurring
me on by the side of a psych ward bed.

I had overdosed not once but twice,
had eyeballed “death” to find that there
is only life and our fight to live it.

Alcohol on Dad’s lap at five, no talks
of love or intimacy, no God, no Truth,
we were in the haze of the Wide path to Hell.

Alcohol as “drink,” C2H5OH ethyl a first
rocket fuel, flammable, volatile, toxic but
clear to go unnoticed to childlike eyes.

“I want that!” because Dad does it, and I
love Dad more than anyone or anything.
Dad and Mom—5th on God’s list of Commands.

I had skipped past “God,” worshipped a man,
then his drink, and when the Wife of my Youth
appeared in third grade: bedeviled, I failed.

I was a bedeviled liar by that time, unable
to speak my mind, my heart squeezed by
serpenty snakes, on the roof teetering, on

the back balcony faltering, on my way to
beer and pot and jacuzzi parties, sports abound
lying about who I was and what I wanted…

The wheels finally came off after college,
then skip a couple years, I turned twenty-five,
was barely alive, so when the Doc supplied

I took more than his dose, did what I had done
with vodka years before, took enough to feel it
in that moment, left me calling 911, 911, 911.

I never learned to live, I was half-dead, my mom
was in the other room when I was alcohol fed,
No one tried wrong, we just were on the Wide,

Wide path of destruction warned of by that
Rebellious rabbi some call “Christ,” Holy Moly
I’ve got truth at Al-Anon and AA, everywhere else:

Lies.  Guys, let’s be honest, “Alcohol as Drink” is
a lie, is the DEVIL, let’s decide!!!!

Be the hero in the strife, Longfellow spurring us
on past the finish line, stick your chest out like
Cristina Sanchez, proud of who we are, honest,

Fearless and True, we can cower at the bull, say
Boo hoo hoo, or stand up, get up again, brush
yourself off start a clothing line, live a dream become

the wind of hope, the outcropping of Good Orderly
Direction, make a schedule for TODAY only, planning
is fine, but God may laugh, Choose Life, a career, a path,

Giving up the Devil drugs and alcohol your first step
to heaven’s ascension, by the poem you write,
That’s the Lennon revolution, God bless us all,

I am suicidal no more.  But I was… And got out with
AA, love, truth, and courage enough to declare
Powerlessness, so that a great Power could come

in and clean up the mess.  One day at a time, is the
only way to live, and live we must, there is no death;
Thank you God for Now, today the only day in Life,

We write this dream together, and with Longfellow let’s
Say it again, one more time here, to let it sink in:

Be a hero in the Strife!!!  A hero in this life.  Steer into
your pain, stand tall like a Marine at his post, block
out your will, replace it with God’s, sacrifice and lean

in to your next promotion, it’s on the way—not because
it’s easy, just the reverse, because it’s difficult, Love,
Love, Love, and Love yourself.  Like my Uncle Les would

say: “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!” and it’s that easy.  Hard.  Soft,
Long.  Give yourself to today only, leave nothing left at
the end but contented sleep.  You cannot find a better

Drug.  Not yet…  Not ever, as God witnesses a never-
ending beginning, the moment we open eyes, take
advantage of our sober dream, make amends, be a friend

Do it all again… “This time with feeling!!!”

Formerly suicidal is dead.  Life begins.  Today… is

All.

The Wife of My Youth – Part Two

23 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Let thy fountain be blessed:
and rejoice with the wife of thy youth.
—Proverbs 5:18

We wait until thirty, marry our fourth
girlfriend, then threaten her with divorce.

If you’re me (pray you’re not), you never
learned love, lied to the wife of your youth,
fell in love with eight or nine girls, played sports
or drank alcohol all over them, made fun
of them when it was clear I hadn’t the skill
to “have” them, be with them, marry them.

I lied to the wife of my youth.

Take heed then to your spirit, and let no one
deal treacherously against the wife of your youth…
—Malachi 2:15

I lied to the wife of my youth.  I have sought
the love of strangers, because I was not honest
with the love of my life, the blessing God
gave me back in third grade.

A hard curse to reverse, but if Boston and
Chicago can get their baseball teams past
theirs, perhaps there is a way to reverse my
sad state.

*******

I saw Anne well before third grade.  I mean,
I think I did, but it was that school year that
illuminated her in a different light.

They call it a “crush.”  Solomon and Malachi
called her the Wife of my Youth.

I was two years from my parents splitting up,
had had a drink of bourbon on Dad’s lap, and
was into tennis.

She was too.  Into tennis.

There was a crush and feelings, possibly before
the night John McEnroe played doubles in front
of us, but that night moved the feelings forward
to another level.

It was a Sunday night, and we had “Show and Tell”
the next day in school, and I think Anne talked about
it.

We both went to the match with our families,
professional tennis on exhibition at a local
Southern California venue, maybe UCLA.

My family and I watched the doubles match,
and five or so rows below us to our right was
the Devereux family, Anne’s family, taking in the
match as well.

We were tennis families.

She was so blonde back then, maybe still is,
I dunno.

So cute.  So pretty.  A little tennis-playing athlete,
like me, probably with pro sports dreams—like me.

She had split-up parents, like me—I think alcohol
dripping through them, like me.

She was just gold and pure from my point of
view.  There was no divorce in looking at her,
no alcohol, no sadness.

Just a desire to be with her, spend time with her,
impress her—make her laugh.

I was in love.

God was not in my life, no source
of courage or strength.  Dad was my
favorite person before Anne came around, but
he and I never talked about feelings.

Coors Light, bourbon and water, divorce and
pretending to be excited about two
Christmases were some of my hobbies
by the time I fell in love with that cute
blonde five rows below me in the stadium,
a couple desks over in our third grade
classroom.

During show and tell the Monday after that
Sunday night tennis outing, Anne shared
that she had gone to see professional tennis,
and shared with a giggle that she had seen ME,
which was the moment in her share I was hanging
on in earnest.

I was in someone’s story, which was cool, but
that she was in my heart was new, and I had no
idea how to proceed.

So I hoped.  And hoped.  And looked.  And kept
trying to catch her attention, make her laugh or
smile.

I bragged about stuff.  She entrapped me once with
a prank, while “tripping people” became something
fun to do.  (We weren’t guided very well)

I declared to Anne that “I could never be tripped.”

Then one day, when the bell rang for P.E. (my favorite
class), Untrippable Bill RAN out of the classroom,
only to have Anne with her foot out.

Totally tripped me.  Could have killed me.

And she laughed.  And she had me.  It was mean,
but I guess I liked the attention…

*******

Osmosis didn’t work with love.  At least,
not with this one.  It did not seep out and share
itself by close proximity to the subject.

Feats achieved on the playing field, classroom,
or with any bragging words did not grant me
access.

I had no phone number, no date for tennis, no
way to keep in touch over the Summer, so when
the last bell rang for the three month break,
I was secretly sad at my failure.

It may have been the day we went to see Mork
and Mindy taped.  My friends and I did stuff our
moms planned for the last day of school; one time
we went to the beach…

It was all fine, except the person I really wanted
to be with was Anne Devereux.

And she went off, may have done stuff with her
friends, and I was privately devastated.  Unable to
communicate love, I was on my way to multiple
failures in love, never having a clue that Alcohol
was at the center of it all.

*******

The devil wears many dresses, corrupts, shines
in a way you wanna grab, have that thing.

I reached for Dad’s bourbon and water.

It took no courage…

But to tell Anne I loved her; that was something
I did not have in my bag, to use a tired golf
analogy.

I was scared.  I had no God to pray to about
that fear, so let the fear run my silence, and love
was not expressed.

I hurt myself; I hurt Anne.  I blasphemed against
God by not following my heart in love, and am left
to serve time for that.

Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe;
let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thy
ravished always with her love.

I even made a cruel joke about Anne during our
ninth grade class trip.  It came from total despair
at not knowing how to express feelings, be intimate
with anyone.  So I lashed out against her.

I looked for someone new to love and cheat by not
telling the truth.

Rinse.  Repeat.  Rinse.  Repeat…

And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with
a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of
a stranger?

God could see my sins.  I could not, still forsaking
without knowing, playing those sports, drinking
those beers—Running with the Devil himself.

For the ways of man are before the eyes of the
LORD, and he pondereth all his goings.

I was spiritually dying…

His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself,
and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.

He shall die without instruction; and in the greatness
of his folly he shall go astray.

Yet ye say, Wherefore?

Make no mistake, it’s a big deal to cross
the LORD, and the LORD’s plans for you.

Because the LORD hath been witness between
thee and the wife of thy youth, against whom
thou hast dealt treacherously: yet is she thy
companion, and the wife of thy covenant.

We play act, pretend all is fine with the
strangers we have found.

We make due and survive, but…

There is a subtle, sometimes harsh wind that
blows, that challenges—even threatens—

Peace of Mind.

And without that… God’s curse becomes real,
our true paths forgotten, and Heaven an
empty dream.

Ye Without Sin

22 Tuesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Religious, Spiritual

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Helicopters, trash and campaign
spending disrupt infrastructure and
safety, a policy not right or left tending,

Just normal politicking in the post-
Samuel era of boy kings and corrupt
cravings.

Losers.  Ye without sin may cast a stone
at your neighbor, call him or her perverts,
freaks, anything to make your pain seem
sweet, we can stop and breathe or just
keep swinging.

Heaven is a peace of mind, knowing you
did your best, John Wooden surely a
“globalist” because under God, he felt
we were all equal.

Jefferson committed the same sin, under
the haze of a time that allowed him not
one but regarding slaves closer to ten.

All statues should come down, recalling the
golden calves raised up while Jews ran from
Egypt, aspired to their promised land.

Moses up the hill, the masses erecting evil
and dancing not for God as David later did.

They shook their butts and drank the wine
of other gods, and were punished as we are
every day we believe a human leader will
“stand for us,” “represent us” or “say the right
thing.”

It starts with you.  Me.  Pray first, stay silent
if not inspired, but when the right words come
please say them.

“I know I always do,” Mary Poppins posed
and sang, knowing when to bow out, enough
being every bit as good as a feast.

Zorro, Soros, Zeros—whatever the infernal thing,
right wing conspiracy theories growing on the
internet wings.

Plowing through the hate already there,
Divisions create divisions, and the Devil
smiles—God allowing this self-same insanity
for so many years.

“You cannot change the world,” Lao Tzu posed,
And no we probably can’t.  Then we can when we
admit we can’t, a spirit takes over, our humility
grows legs and Wyatt Earp is born again.

“Stop doing that, sir, there are women and children
present.”

Take an action, never kill, Love your enemy, and it
sure would be neat if the United States of
America would stop stealing native land.

Perhaps we could pay our debts someday, moral
as well as financial, give lands back according to
the old treaties, create a better karma, warm up
that speech to tell today’s Samuel, when that
prophet marches up to speak to God, apologize
and repent.

Pay that twenty trillion dollars off, one month at a time
like we all privately do, then after native amends
look square at the descendant of Africa:

“Fill out this form, establish lineage to the sin
of slavery and receive this twenty thousand
dollar grant to travel home to Africa, visit, enjoy,
and…  We are sorry to have brought your ancestors
here in chains against their will.  We are sorry
for the beatings, the murder, the emotional
as well as physical abuse.”

On our way (we must have gotten sober by now!)
we certainly admit the CIA murdered JFK.

Covert CIA gets shut down, the democracy
makes more sense, God is back in charge, and
karma is back with us.

Don’t forget to apologize to the United
Nations and to the world for all the post
World War II meddling and violence.

Read the U.N. Charter.  “I know
I always do,” says Sacha Llorenti of Bolivia,
the most enlightened country in the world
if you judge by UN security council statements,
always ready to flash the Charter.

Law.  International, Federal, State, Local.

Teach it in schools, kids can handle code starting
at five years of age.

Better than bourbon and water, better than
school’s current cage.

(You know, the one that drove John Stuart
Mill mad, before he recovered to succeed)

Success a peace of mind…  Wooden supplied.

Heaven.  Be perfect as God in heaven is perfect.

Thou shalt not kill.  Ever.  Martial arts self-defense
is even better.  Use your eyes, sense.  I love you.

Wars are never won.  Killing is for losers, Trump.

—Love, William

Ask Your Doctor About

21 Monday Aug 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spirituality

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Every recipe for suicide
questions life, but only some end up
in killing bombs and Dodge Chargers.

Murder is a suicidal act, we kill part
of ourselves, judge another, take
a life, fail to recognize the thing we kill
in ourselves, go on with that flaw
until we see a light.

That is for those who make it past
the suicidal blaze of “glory”—dubbed
terrorist acts by those who deny
the Devil his due.

***

Boom, the “terrorist” died too, but
we condemn the sick as “evil” or if
illegally, unethically in high office call
them “losers.”

We lose and call it a win, call it Trump
logic, right is left and up is down—
yes this is the world we live in, not
surprising the reader of Samuel’s interaction
with the LORD over whether the people
should have a King.

We should not, or if we do, give the
mantle to God him or herself, but that
takes a backseat to the ramming
Charger, now mowing down a Paris
pedestrian, now in a London concert,
now in Barcelona.  Sick.  Not losers.

Hungry, Angry, Lonely and/or Tired,
let’s drop Twinkies not bombs, reach out
and keep our foreign aid robust.

Give all you can, Love your Enemy, and
if confronted with horrible hate, return
it with unmistakable love.

***

And relax.  It’s worse than you think…

Karma is best served with chicken curry
over rice at your friend’s Pakistani
house by a Filipino maid named Aning.

But we can’t always choose its form, and
while we live through the curse God
promised to Samuel, and which he
relayed to the Jews…

We let the CIA continue its rule.

They murdered Kennedy in 1963,
now they Tweet how great they are,
and shiny balls dance around eclipsing
Truth, convincing many that the past
doesn’t matter.

It’s okay we lied to Native Americans
about their land, stole it from under
them for the gold there or perceived
to be there.

Meanwhile we missed the true gold
that was the native culture and love for land.

*****

It’s okay we had slaves and never made amends
to Africa-descended people.  “It’s too far
back to do anything about it,” so we go on
spending money we don’t have on the next
medicine to be peddled directly to patients
and children on TV.

“Ask your doctor about…”  Well, I’ll ask
them about Karma, see what they say.

I’ll ask them about their own medical
problems, their addictions, their apparent
polytheistic confusion.

“Have no gods before me” didn’t stop
the south from their confederate monuments.

God lets us fail over and over again, so that
perhaps we can go back to Samuel in spirit,
finally say:

“God, we are so very sorry we abandoned you
years ago.  We want you to be our king
after all.”

And God will not listen, as he or she promised
to Samuel.

Because we don’t have to ask; only to accept
that we are not in charge, that our leaders are
human beings, imperfect, and easily-corrupted.

The Warren Commission lies hurt, the inner-cities
reeling, and judging others as “terrorists” does
not address the terrorism going on in your
own heart and mind.

The demons in you need attention if they
are to depart, ask Gandhi or Martin, listen
to Jesus or whoever’s got the hot hand.

Wikipedia convicts Oswald without a trial,
Oswald’s 6th amendment fought for by Lane
and achieved, if anyone willing to read a book.

Hate speech is treasonous; there’s no
amendment for it.

The wife of my youth doesn’t like me,
But I always try to love her, for that is how
the stars bring me peace instead of War at
Christmas time every year.

Ask your doctor about soliciting reviews
and feedback on every business interaction.

Perhaps they will say something I believe:

Money’s my feedback.  If you have mine, good job.

If I ask for it back, you failed.

Ask your doctor about Donald Trump, and
get an answer;

Ask God, and get The answer:

Love him.  Love you.  Love all, and make
God king and doctor once again.

Like Other Nations

18 Friday Aug 2017

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Samuel told all the words of the LORD to the
people who were asking him for a king.

***

Dividing truth, Trump logic, Right versus Left,

then label a crime a “Terrorist Attack”—
giving the Devil an alibi once again.

Evil is evil.  Call it out with love.

***

United we fall, the Warren Commission
lies, still plagues…

***

No longer in “America,”
We depart words and norms, ask
a Higher Power to bless us, come into
words so they mean something good.

The United States of Being, a place
of Freedom.  Real freedom of speech,
where words bridge to other words until
it was worth the ride…

Ever since Samuel asked for a king,
we have been plagued by our human
leaders.

There is no surprise a government killed
off a native race, allowed slavery so long,
Killed its own president and covered up the
evidence in 1963 and four.

Gandhi, Jesus, Martin Luther King looked
inward at great study.

Found and fought demons within, preached
a message of loving your enemy, judging not lest
ye be judged…

And the LORD told him: “Listen to all that the people
are saying to you; it is not you they have rejected,
but they have rejected me as their king…”

It may be time to ask God to lead
us again.

God, please be our king.  Amen

The Search for Meaning

06 Tuesday Jun 2017

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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.