Talgarth Graves

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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

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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

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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 lo 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 anos…

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

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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

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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

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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!!!!

La Puerta

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Door1

Oración, la puerta, la manera
de abrir la mente de oportunidad
está para ti en frente, siempre
en frente, después permitir
la verdad caer de la montaña
verde que es la vida real, la vida
sin guerra.

Sonría—mejor, ría en nuestro
camino sin importancia, sin
propósito, sin valor en un
mundo vivido tantas veces,
lo mismo antes el cambio que
llevaste cuando ese viento te
hizo,

Dando vida al deseo al mismo
tiempo un nuevo concepto
nunca pensado que se llama
con orgullo, “optimismo.”
Zapata, sí vive, más que Villa
en su baile con “América”
matado por ser hombre de

Paz.

Siempre es las vida reformada
y para cielo que impresiona
al diablo en hombre, causando
la muerte.

Jesús, o sino… su viento, eliminando
todo, matándola, dejando solo
vida en o alrededor del kiosko,
ya no vacío.

Anne

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Anne1 -- Flower

The first one is blessed by God.  Nature.  Truth.
She comes to you, when you are ready, when
She too, is that part of you that’s ready,
The smile, the joy within finds its way out

And Love springs.

Alcohol as “drink,” un-guided living, the Devil
Himself intervene with love sometimes,
and we surrender it to adoption services, or
Some later date, convenient to the scared

And confused…

Anne was my first crush, and could have been
The only love of my life, and I would have been
blessed—this, if life was not saturated in Alcohol
as “drink,” the Devil playing with us, confusing

and Usurping—

Like the land in America we stole, usurping the
Name of God, Christ, the Bible to steal land from
a Natural people connected to the Great Spirit,
Creation itself forgotten by Europe, Rome,

Book thumps and war.

We killed the Druids and almost their spirit.
Romans conquered themselves, we too—
The English took on the worst of Rome, made
it our own, conquered ourselves and God

in Greed for the Crown.

Anne, meanwhile, couldn’t have sparkled more,
Myself unable to tell her I loved her.  Because
I was a Viking.  And Roman.  And Alcoholic.
And bedeviled.  I thought a flammable liquid

Good to drink.

***

I am a fool, am fooled—was born a drunk,
a liar and a thief.  A violent war monger
un-guided and destined for Hell—

Truth help me.  God help me.  Great Spirit
and Creation forgive me; my father’s sins
are mine, I climb and escape them only
with doses daily of Truth, doses daily of

Love and forgiveness.

Anne lives in mountains, as do I—she there,
Me here, and I cannot make the weather
move her to me, only asking higher powers
to reward willingness for amends and Truth

with Health.

Will I die an example of what not to do?
Will I live to the hilt making amends for the past?
Can my message help the next child, blessed by Love,
But tempted and un-guided on his way to Hell?

Truth, son, will bring you back to Anne…

The Perfect Bummer

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Dog Poo1

I had no idea when I boarded
the bus that I had stepped in it.

It was the first day of school, or
so it seemed, myself off on my
first bus to town from my
mountain writer’s paradise in
San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato
Mexico, place of story, desert
and an indigenous way of life
caught in the headlights of Europe’s
historic, often perverse advance.

There I was, not alone, but
with the dueña of my house,
she the mom, overseeing
transfer of her child from home
to bus to school.

We were both eager to see
this bus from rural Jalpa past
our compound toward the Centro,
and sure enough after a while,
the Route 15 bus rumbled along,
but not until a time waiting
and conversing.

In that time I did notice a
tremendously large dog dropping.
Big and steamy, to my left—no
problem, and not a surprise with
all the dogs around that area.

No matter, here’s my bus!  There,
at last, some independence,
to learn the bus system important
living in so remote a place while
I wrote my book about white
people stealing native lands.

“Hola, buenos días!!” smiling was
I, ear to ear, after shaking hands with
the dueña—we had figured out the
bus and I was bound for town!

I gave the driver my twenty
peso bill, and he gave me my
four pesos change, and I smiled
and wished all the passengers
a good day, and all was super-duper
happy and contento…

Then I smelled something, around
the time the driver halted and
peeled off the road at a high rate.

Dog poop had infiltrated the bus,
and I looked down the lane I’d
walked to my seat, saw marks of
horror, looked at my right shoe,
and sure enough—

I had tracked in the poo of
some large dog on my first
exciting bus ride into town,
San Miguel de Allende, 2019,

God help us it was a perfect
bummer.  Looking back, I may
have stepped in it at the very
moment I shook my dueña’s
hand, congratulating myself
on figuring out the bus schedule
at last.

Reminds me of something my
dad would have said:

“If the deck is not clear, do not
bother sailing,” or more succinctly—

“Safety First,” or more to the
point of my story, look where
you are going, check for dog
poop, be humble.

I stepped in it, spread it to
the bus, like Europeans spread
disease, alcoholism, and curse
words to the “New World.”

Oh, and a bible.  And guns—a
mixed bag, while European
graves of our forefathers fall
apart, untended.

We forgot to love the land and
honor our fathers, sailed
across an ocean and stole land.

On it today I walked, and stepped
in poop—these facts unrelated,
unless you’re one to relate

The First You

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Children2

So you have trouble fitting
in sometimes, you look up
at Dad and Mom, what they
did and who they are or were,

and think there I am somewhere.
Do not be so deceived!  You
are neither with Mom or Dad,
represent neither one but a

Strange combination of them
never before you tried.  You

are in fact, the first You ever made,
so gather strength, listen to
the rain, the voice inside that
pushes us past the pain,

Rainbows await the patient
and the wet; games lost are won
the moment you reach across
and shake hands heartily.

God is the sunshine, or a fiction,
or the joy after a hard nap,
Dreams things that come when
we ask for help.

We cannot do this on the
path already chosen for you,
so break off and find the true—
the Truth that you are a

masterpiece, if you so believe.