Livingston

05 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by in Love, Peace, Poetry

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I watch them litter in Los Angeles,
hear the illegal bombs detonate
every Summer, thug life calling it all
the Fourth of July—but you know:

War is war.

I look East, to where my people
came from, bumbling West.

Wales.

Home of crusty shores, green valleys,
wet and medium cloudy and blue
skies in my dreams only, ‘cause
I’ve never been.

London has plays, football and a dry
wit, the foundation of English
there among the crags of Scottish
Highland wind—

Hope dawns in an Irish Spring, sing-
songing an accent, speaking of a golf
links well-played by a guy named Padraig,
green as can be, smoky over water
to the sunshine of a well-struck fairway
wood against thunder.

Rains all the time until it doesn’t, the clouds
yawning fog away and the rainbow
spawns a son, Gold not waiting at its end
but beginning when an “American” tired
of hidden Kennedy’s and covered up
Cold War murder returns.

“Repatriation” sings out to the conscience
of a man beat around the links too many
times by alcoholic graft.

I seek a putter from the rough, couldn’t
be happier I can see around the bush—

My 400 years of servitude in “America” perhaps
passing like a fallen mountain breeze.

Winter descends on trash in Los Angeles,
and I—

I seek employment in Montana with friends:

River called “Elk” or “Yellowstone” by other names
as flowing.

Constant is God’s invitation to Glory.

But we only accept when ready—

When we’ve put in the work, amended the
idiot we were to bring out the man
or woman ever-seeking the child within on
paths East toward Heaven.

Reborn is the sinner at admitting fault.
Love beckons the other half in me
unexplored.

Come with me to Livingston, in words
only if necessary, we like to keep it small.

The town is a river, mountains and changing
weather. This is God’s country at the hip
of National Park presence.

A break for many, exposure to the land.

The Indians had it right all along, never
cursing—always blessing the land.

Without good words, hold tongues.

I go East to Livingston, if she’ll have me.

A year or two, then Wales. Home.

400 years later, Watkins returns…
if she’ll have me.

If she’ll have me.

Heddwch fy mhobl…

If she’ll have me!!!

Keeping LORD

24 Saturday Sep 2016

Posted by in God, Poetry

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We do not try to do harm.

We read half a book, “get saved—”

Are excited about a new faith,
and express what we know, however
flawed.

We read a Bible, an Old and new
testament—combine Jewish and
Christian ideas until sometimes a
confusion results.

We lose LORD when we write
“Lord.”

LORD from YHWH, not to be
used in vain.

The big One, the Creator, the
true name.

So do not lessen it more than it
has been lessened going from
vowel-less to vowel-containing.

Do not “change” it like Jesus’
water to wine, because Jesus
did not come to eradicate the
ten commandments—nor the
Entity that inspired them.

Keep the LORD.

Write for, dance and Sing LORD
in prayer—celebrate the name with
fervor and exaltation!!

And pray the prayer Jesus gave us
to connect with LORD, with the
Father.

Lord Jesus, helping us connect
with love and LORD.

With YHWH.

With truth.

I Am

27 Saturday Aug 2016

Posted by in Life, Love, Poem, Poetry

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Words fail.

Ask Borges. Or Shakespeare,
where a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet, Borges a writer
and philosopher who criticized
words as fictions.

We journey to childhood, advancing
this or that, trying to help having
experienced something.

We transfer what we know and experience
to others, try to help, use words—

Whatever we can to improve a world
that according to Lao Tzu:

cannot be improved.

Stop. Go. Love. Hate. Be you,
be truth. Be human, be all things
under the sun or rain to bend or
move with pain—

Be that rainbow after the rain, be the
sunshine filtering through Spring,
a bead of sweat from a good game.

Be alive.

Be dead, where sleep takes us away
hopefully when content with waking
life—we
did enough to feel peace of mind.

The “Devil” is a word, for me conjuring
total perfect evil, temptation, “sin” bringing
more words into a poem which celebrates
the absence of nothing, the need to need—

words failing time and again to say anything
the next generation can use, but still
they use us.

Trapped in words and freed by thought
we smile and return to innocence—if
for only a moment, because the complex
rhythm of words so juxtaposed on paper
or on stage—spoken against wind
through ears ring.

And the pulse shortens.

And we return to our child, the
Native American her home with
God and Nature, the Great Spirit
awakening when we decide to walk
instead of fly.

When we pray on grounds instead of
burning fuel from above.

When we accept the slow pace, as the
real pace, and see that we cannot
enjoy this thing if going too fast,
so hear a Jack Johnson record, slow
down everybody, dilly-dally with some
words, and
let’s pretend.

For Westridge ’89:

15 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in Poetry, Westridge School

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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

Posted by in Poetry

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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!

The Old Argument

07 Monday Mar 2016

Posted by in Gun Control, Police

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I had to kill him because he had a gun.

Did you?

What if you used a non-lethal weapon
to disable him?

Could that perpetrator do any harm
from the ground, where they lie
writhing in pain?

“I had to kill.”

“I had to point my gun into their
torso, and fire a bullet.”

I disagree, and so does Science if
your goal is to stop a killer from killing.

You would claim that their heart must
STOP.  I claim not.

Can an unconscious person kill?

As a scientist, man—this is not
even “thou shalt not kill,” this is
a question of physics not religion—

So put your heart into your answer,
stop for a moment your longstanding
justification for murder.

No, an unconscious person cannot kill.

Is it right to Kill a killer?  It is wrong to
kill, but wait.  We get to kill someone,
don’t we boss?

If you want a nice community:  no.

If you want to be on level with society—
no.

“But what about the gang bangers?  The
crooks, the crazies going for suicide-by-cop?”

Duck, get the heck behind a wall, and wait it out.
If you have the range to use your
non-lethal arsenal—use it.  If not, be cool,
and take cover.

Two wrongs will never make a right.

It is wrong to kill—that violent criminal,
waving and shooting a gun… Wrong!!!

But it is even more wrong to stand on
a pedestal with your healthy attitude,
and spit down to wipe that Wrong person
off the face of the Earth.

Stop playing God, serve others and
Enforce LAW, Mr. and Mrs. Police
Officer.

You can go from a Scary to “Helpful” group.

You can stop justifying wrong and
Scientifically poor statements like
“I had to kill him, he had a gun.”

Just drop ‘em, or wait
‘em out, save a soul—theirs, yours,
let’s convert some crooks to
citizens today.  Love our fellow
man or woman—especially when they
need love the most!!!

Put down our arms, Risk injury
and join the right side of the fight—

Never kill and do right.