Category Archives: Poetry

For Westridge ’89:

15 Monday Aug 2016

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Westridge ‘89

’86 rolled through first, my sister
a part of that, and they were special
and in my heart—don’t get me wrong.

But ’89 knocked on our dance floor in
the Fall of 1984, my favorite year, just
around the time “Tenderness” and General
Public saved us the loss of English Beat.

We were cheered by that, cheered by Eddie
Murphy bringing comedy back after we
lost John Belushi. Even seeing John’s
brother, Jim, hanging out of a train
in Trading Places to bring in the New
Year gave hope.

Things were changing for good, it was our
year, it must be!! “Did you see that Westridge
class?” They were hot! Can I say that? Not me,
no, but others could, I’ll just sit back and observe
and wait for my chance.

It would come on the last dance. We matched up
and I chose Melanie, or did she choose me?

I was so short, she so normally heighted, but I guess
I was “cute,” I’ll grant that, but them?

I was blown away.

The rub is there, my roots were not firm enough,
I’d have found a compartment to put them
under my Higher Power had I had one, but as
it was, I didn’t have the words and the moment
passed…

To Westridge ’89 I say now, words my game
and honesty my best friend:

You are my best friends, my greatest memory,
please don’t forget me…

Your joy now as then important to me,
live long but passionately, tap into
English Beat, “Tenderness” must be
the fearless anthem of moral victory we
pass down to the next generation of
“Who are you, I, me?” Be yourself, and let
us fill our kids with so much cool creativity

that alcohol, which stole me so easily, will
only to them be a substance to take or leave.

Green dreams and peace, the spirit of Westridge
’89 will not die as long as I write,

I hope this and these words find you dancing,
ska or something silly, slow-dancing something
giddy, some boy making cracks and love finding
its way anyway—

Westridge ’89, what a sight I say!!!!

Headshot -- Bill Watkins

—Love, William:)

For Poly:

15 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in Poetry, Polytechnic School

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What I Would’ve Done

This could be a gospel song—better
yet, play it in a musical.

My favorites were by friends or
older people I respected in school.

I was afraid of a staged spotlight—
preferred the warmth of sports
dreams at night.

Matty was the name of my cousin
who I idolized, a prize at three
on Friday to watch him play.

Or on a Thursday night, I’d dress up
ten years old preppy again—

topsiders with tassels, polo jackets
and off to hoops games I’d go,
Poly Panthers against someone,
it didn’t matter let’s go!

***

But if I could do it again, I’d flip a few things—
do it all better, come out a king.

Not of the campus, but in my own
heart knowing I did my best to be the
best I could be—fear to the Devil you’ll see.

I’d have told Anne I liked her in third,
J.J. in fourth, would’ve played the piano
starting at five instead of obsessing on
my parents or their drinks, or on perfection—

Playing the piano takes less than you think!!

Approach the ivory, tickle the ebony, make
sounds that please you and God, have fun!!

Yes, Fun can be the best teacher of them
all;

I’d have played and played, then sang and sang—

Take time to dance, learn some classical moves
then move in ways they haven’t seen yet.

Fred Astaire born again I’d have been, on stage
in the show—not to be a star, but then again
bring on the light and heat!!

It’s neat. A service to give, to give all you
got, to dance past fear, to study science
like a rock star enough to know that
C2H5OH ethyl alcohol pitched as “drink”
is volatile, flammable, toxic and not
worth another think!!

Why ever put that crud in my body?!?!

If I could go back and do it again,
I’d never dabble in Devil, hit that
piano and stage with love, tell
that cute girl how much I loved
her, and Mom and Dad too!

Sisters, brothers, friends, teammates,
Cast and Crew—it could be you!!

Love!!

Love, man—

I’d have loved more. I’d have said
the word more.

They would have known.

Gosh I hope they know now!

I’m back… having failed. To love.

To say:

If you can, avoid me, and do it right
the first time.

It takes courage; I found it in God, or
“Higher Power.”

May you find one now!!!!

—Love,

William, Class of 1990

Sober

29 Wednesday Jun 2016

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Lips talk, smooth the
pulse of asking and answering—
the song of not knowing but trying.

We hide not, but expose our
last secret because we are tired
of tired.

You wake up from the lies and
stand sexy and true—because

Truth is sexy, is the beginning to
all things, creation needing lips
to part and truth to be told—

Let it out, and be shy if shy,
outgoing if outgoing, just
be yourself and never shy from that.

You are beautiful, in most ways—
Be.

And let it out now, the car ditched,
engage the soldier on his walk
and smile.

His gun dropped, disarmed we all
ready our dreams for realization

Knowing songs sung make
the journal worth the purchase.

Travel out, use your five senses
and with your sixth—

Write a poem.

Lift us up now, write, think—
and give.

Someone may need you, or to
know it’s okay—

Don’t be Cool, be True—and be okay,

so when the others act bad
and call you to their flammable
drink,

Say no and be unique—

The one not at the party but in
the mind expressing truth so the world
with you can truly think.

I am therefore I think.

Duty, love. Stop. Go;

I love you, always but only
when sober, love…

Only when sober. See the One
God, be you, fear not!

Only when sober.
Only then, dear—not before or after.

Pick nice over cool, and let’s
make the narrow road to heaven
wider, a step at a time wider,

twelve steps on a dime, be a writer.

Sing, dance, be a singer—a whatever
that is truly you, her. Be…

Sober!!

Rebound

11 Saturday Jun 2016

Posted by in Poetry, Relationships

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There was nothing wrong with the first.

There was something wrong with us—

Then that thing didn’t go away by the
second, third—

Then we’re in middle school on the rebound,
slow-dancing with the wrong one,

pouting ‘cause we got it wrong.

The cry is so hidden, though—we are
deceived to thinking we’re right!

Like Thieves in the night, we dance and
celebrate wrong, raising and tilting
glasses back like pimps.

We found a large crew to do wrong with
us, so in this majority we felt right;

We drank enough, and felt right.

We carried on without guide, thought
“Mrs.” Right was maybe behind door
number five… When really, she is still

Behind number one.

Blessed is the wife of our youth.

Rejoice in her, the Bible says—and a curse
to those who offend her.

All songs danced to without her is
blasphemy against blessing, all lust away
from her is a fulfillment of curse.

The only way to stop the rebound is to
stop taking outside shots.

Go back to the First, apologize and stop
shooting altogether.

Love.

False Report

30 Monday May 2016

Posted by in Poetry, Politics

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,

The Budget is failing us.

Safety Last was not just a Harold Lloyd
movie, the clock stuck on political corruption
past twelve;

Harold reaching the summit impossibly
with one arm raised.

We promise to be gods as we rise
to the top, spend millions on ourselves,
“Vote For Me,” as our sidewalks
crack, and wear and breakdown—

Another day in the city, elections
coming up again.

Should we let a child vote, or send them
to the kids’ table to write graffiti and
join the local gangs?

I was ready by eight, Reagan against
Carter—pass me the ball, I know
what I like and want, I wanna vote,
I wanna help, let me in, let me in
Let me in, Please!

I want to begin!

By eighteen I’m drinking alcohol—burning
out on it, actually, middle finger
in the air, you could have
had me when I cared,

But missed me.

How many kids are we missing?

How many immigrants want to help,
but we make citizenship a matter of
place and time instead of Merit!

Take and pass a test!! You want to be
a part of and help our country, STEP UP!!

Age? Country of Origin?

Who cares about that, if a willing helpful
hand wants in to help?

Corrupt since Adam and Eve? Genocide
in the Philippines? World War I propaganda
and censorship of anti-war voices?

Killing Kennedy, covering up facts,
sitting on evidence—claiming “National
Security,” Big Brother?

Buying your way to political seats, getting
so fat you cannot even SEE my sidewalk.

When was the last time you huffed it on
our pavement, sans-tinted glass and
SUV’s, Mr. President down to City
Councils and Mayors, go fish with your
inflated salaries and dishonest campaign
casualties,

the ultimate loser, the tax payer—paying
for every corrupt act.

Then the police come and arrest the wrong
hack, because a neighborhood rose in
one voice against goodness, truth and law.

Wide is the path to Destruction, and many are on
it. Lying makes you average, Truth at risk
of rocking boats and padded cells, prepared
for you the moment the silver-spoon fed mayor
decides to skimp on infrastructure and Safety.

He spends on “Health” and Public Zoos, goes to
Dodger games, takes pictures with the famous.

The sirens and helicopters roar without a war,
as we finally figure out that shooting people
in the torso is not self-defense.

God Bless us back to the 10 commandments,
the Tao Te Ching.

Never bear false witness, number
nine on God’s list, Heaven
still on the line—

We can win this thing!

Fighting the Fight

25 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in Bullies, Poetry

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Is it might or right, from your
front door standing in the night?

You raise your fist and sound
the alarm, speak tough words

and are willing to roll around
with other men, on the ground

of prisons, jails and sin, but if
“I could just be the toughest,

Perhaps they would give me a
medal of honor, and I would finally…

Win.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass” is the favorite
of the “Tough”—not seeing the homo-

sexual connotations in raping peace
with certain incarceration, where you

might find yourself rolling around soon
with other men who thought they were

Tough, then ended up showing their
toughness to male guards, temporary

male prostitutes, trying to substitute
for co-ed life away from the bars.

Then one day you think, maybe I should
not fight so much, or act on anger

all the time, pushing my weight around,
because wait:

Life is short, and I’d rather be free where
I go, free of anger, fear and pride driving

me every which way but home—to the bar,
to the road, to the fight, to the
handcuffs, to the booking, to the
stories told when everybody’s looking,

to a lonely cell, the brotherhood of
all men and women, could have listened
to Jesus Christ, turned the other cheek,

kissed the girl, raised a family—

So stop rolling around with other men—
or threatening homoerotic fantasies,

And come back to God, peace, and
general neighborhood tranquility.

Tough, like Cool is dead—in the presence
of cooler, calmer, eternal Nice.

God bless us to nice—a Tough thing to
be—the best if you want to breathe
long… And See.

New Year’s Poem — 2015/2016

31 Thursday Dec 2015

Posted by in New Year, Poetry

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Poetry Season

It’s January in my mind,
the ball did not drop yet but
it wonders why so many people
claim Rome fell.

We dance by an old calendar
expressing new ways to
celebrate her.

We measure 365 days to perfection,
even the most religious
so scientific when it comes
to birthdays and moving suns.

Or is it the Earth that rotates?

I sometimes forget, standing
still the supposed whirling around
of all matter, going this way
or that—

Depending of course, on where
you are standing upon viewing,
Einstein calling us to keep on
achieving, E=mc2 never a
replacement for Higher Power
and supplicating for better
unknowns…

Switching times, it’s closer
than you think. New Year’s
Eve again, and change leads us
and thoughts forwards and
backwards over what was and might
be—new numbers on our dated
homework or at the bank or DMV.

The ball drops, but not only in
New York. Change follows truth,
and improvement needs you to
admit what is bad, before all becomes
good.

Imagine the rain and what it cleans;
clouds and how they seem.

Without a storm, could we have
the ‘bow and wind-swept blue?

Without the hard, could there be easy?

Without hell, would there be a heaven
at all?

And to those Big Bangers: apply
“yin and yang” to your science and
see that absence of matter needs
matter, and matter absence—there is
always everything, nothing and hopefully
One positive thing driving this
Symphony of stars, whether on a beach
or in the sky.

Ours is not to die, but to contribute
some light, Walt Whitman’s line,

and so with that, what will yours be?

Another drink, a cliché—you listen to
your TV?

School, a job, get drunk enough to
marry, have kids—then realize you
aren’t living your dreams but theirs?

Trust no white coat, and reject
diagnosis as you trudge the hill
leading to real health from its
Primary Provider—Higher Power,
your best “you” firing out like a rising
comet, burning bright before they’ll
say you never died, but supplied…

That need in us to shine.

Then gather us to our people, like
the Jews of old, who left their
lives in others’ hands, departed with
the world spinning as before, better—stronger
and wiser, the ‘bow sweet over
yesterday’s sad rain,

2015 in Roman numerals becoming
2016 once again…

Happy New Year, babies, and may
your daughters and sons carry
this message to the sun:

Thanks. Just “thanks,” as we live
today just begun.

My Fulham Cap

16 Wednesday Dec 2015

Posted by in Football, Poetry

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Nothing changes in this city
gone mad with same.

You look up, you look down,
and are sure the world’s insane.

Clint Dempsey lit it up there,
The Cottage for a moment

Lost in the shine that was his wake.

I love Fulham.

I shall not leave her.

And I await her return to the Premier
League, not just for hers but
for my selfish sake.

And not just for my Fulham cap,
which hangs hooked on a proud
nail in my room…

I need Fulham on my TV
more often, and for that reason

I write this half poem-half song
to celebrate and inspire

My Forever favorite football club,

Fulham FC. Find me in Los Angeles
on NBC or NBCSN, or USA channel
or NBC Sports EXTRA channels,

I hardly care where, but find me!!

I’ll be waiting with my Fulham cap
on, even though I rarely wear
caps anymore.

And my Fulham scarf is too warm—
let’s face it, I live in warm weather
mecca…

Where I await your return to my television.

Love and Faith.

—Watkins

Fulham Cap+Cross

 

Loving What You Hate

10 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by in Poetry

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There’s no quick turn-around;

A backdoor, when and where it all comes together
unless by prayer or high
action you find yourself breathing
in the beach breeze against sun,

the day arrived, the day we decided to
die, live, make love—fun.

The “high school” graduate yells “shit”
from his balcony, can’t put sentences together,
and if he has a vocabulary, he hides
it underneath his marijuana bhang,
pride and fear that he’s uncool clouding
every chance light has to enter his
soul until that jump…

Peace is still rainbowesque;
catapulting still off and through
Argentine waterfalls on that border
with Brazil.

Paraguay hopes like me to be
better than it is, some day…

We need further study. Diplomas
less given, and more asked for in return
for them.

Law—the bastard subject next to
Civics, as lost as an Alien on his
way through my TV on the History2
channel (I refuse to call it history)—

is not taught, and so why expect it
to be respected and obeyed?

Morality lost with every “victory” for
Free Speech over God, morality
and religion, the atheists gaining
clout with funny tweets and 16-dollar
a month HBO shows, Bill Maher,
smart and funny but at times under
his own bhang of frilly bling blang,
guests and the mess that is

a scientific “fact…”

Read Borges and see facts becoming fictions,
examine your soul and see the glory
of God within those peaceful moments,
away from the vulgarity of neighbors
lacking effort and linguistic courtesy,
away from personal firework use
and alcohol ads to alcoholics, teens
and pregnant mothers—

Love life, accept death as rebirth and
good ideas as eternal, and know why
you survived until now to spread
the message of Good language
trying at truth, failing miserably,
but trying hard anyway to seek
Peace of Mind, and hence Heaven,

John Wooden’s success and mine
the end of mess and time, facts
and rhymes—

the song only of science sung
silently, sublime.

Exodus—Genesis, moving out
Marley’s people, Jah love, peace

the waterfall under which we
finally marry the wives of our youth, tell
the truth with words we’re “given,”
and close our eyes

Prepare for Peace

26 Thursday Mar 2015

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

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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