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~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: God

Looking for Native America

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Native, Native America, Native American, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Discovery, Earth, God, Great Spirit, Love, Mother, Native, Native America, Native American, Native Americans, Peace, Revival, Spirit, Truth, Wales, World Peace

It’s a long journey from Wales
to here;

400-plus years of wandering
makes one wonder what they feared.

We left our fathers’ graves behind,
Welshmen and women ground into
the winter soil, Celtic calls for
adventure, armored up and ready
to go, sir!

Captain John Smith is noble enough,
we can handle this sea, this new
land, the savage race—look at us!!!

We’ll make the Crown proud, become
stars, make names for ourselves,
but only if this colony comes off okay.

We’re British and militaristic; we see
these brown-skinned people, compare
and contrast, seek advantages, a way
to squat and succeed.

“Success is a peace of mind, knowing
you did the best you could to be the
best you were capable of becoming.”

Best Christians, John?

Best warriors?

Best Explorers?  Businessmen?  Reps
of the Crown?

People.  The best People we could be
requires more looking back than forward
if the looking causes you to cringe with
regret and shame.

Go back, see the poverty of the native
tribe, the reservations in shackles
of bison’s spoiled hide.

Hunted and sold, looking for gold—

Not realizing the real value was in
the wisdom of the land, expressed through
its proud care-takers.

There are many differences from nation
to nation today, and as much or more
between the native nations then and
now as the Great Spirit

hides under Western medicine, civilization
and money.

Stop taking it.  Fight for your land, still,
Native America, seek out the documents,
the treaties, the promises made, take
them to court, and win.

Hire attorneys and win.  Reclaim and rise,
never give up the spirit to try, we are
a part of the land, it is God’s

and is our pride.

They break the rocks for concrete, burn
the blood for rocket fuel, we pray for
the lost Europeans, that they find
their way back home.

Yes, Animals

20 Sunday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Love, Native, Nature, Peace, Truth

What is man without the beasts?
If all the beasts were gone, men would
die from great loneliness of spirit, for
whatever happens to the beasts also
happens to man.  All things are connected.
Whatever befalls the earth befalls the
children of the earth.
—Chief Seattle

I need to dumb down to reach
God and the masses, animals all of us.

Donald Trump uses the word “Animal”
as a curse or put down, which to me
puts himself down, as of course we are
all animals.

Donald Trump has no idea what this
poem is about, would bluster “he
doesn’t care,” but the truth is that
he deeply cares, and is ashamed at
how low his education is.

He cares, and is ashamed at how much
debt he is in, his sexual habits caught
on tape, money paid out to quiet
ex-lovers.

I love Donald, and so did his mom
and dad.

It IS PARTIALLY OUR FAULT—
ALL OF OUR FAULT!!!!—for letting someone
like Donald Trump be “president,”
for letting someone with NO
PUBLIC SERVICE EXPERIENCE even run
for president of the United States of
America.

(By “United” I refer to what rich
representatives in a Continental
Congress claimed this country was
in 1776, ignoring Slavery and native
people, who were not considered,
nor counted.  Women left out,
children discriminated against a few
years later in a Constitution that
sets “age” limits four times: to
run for Congress, Senate, President,
and to vote.  To judge a big group
of people on an arbitrary quality
like gender, race or AGE—and to
restrict that group
based on that quality from having
rights or access to something is called
discrimination.)

So, Donald’s campaign sought outside
help from foreign nations, Russian
money, and others who own FIFA
and where it plays its soccer games.

Bribe and play, pay to play, go
to work one day, and there you
are in the White House because you
sold enough racist followers that
“brown people will not replace us,
Nor will Hillary, or Obama and his
blacktivists!”—and they voted for
you to…

Lead or tweet?

Campaign for 2020 or lead?

Troll people online, watch Fox News
and play golf on the government’s dime?

Geez, you wanna change things,
Donald and Devin—you wanna root
out the deep state?

Stand up to CIA and its covert
mission of violence and secrets!!  Put
the spotlight on JFK.  The real
president of this Country IS
CIA!!!!

Since November of 1963, we are under
their covert thumb, the leash long
enough to feel free—

and although God is truly in charge
of all, we pretend down here that
we have power.

We do not, no matter how many Samuels
go up the mountain and ask God
for a king.

Diagnosed

20 Sunday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Health, Love, Truth

“Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

Why fight the wide path on our
way to wherever, most go with the
flow of the other ants—who wants
to make waves?

Western Medicine is not health, but
you wouldn’t know that in the States,
watching the news or the commercials
in between pitching drugs at patients,

Alcohol at kids.

Alcohol at alcoholics, but where else
but here?  We have a second amendment
protecting everyone’s right to break the
sixth commandment.

We have a National Security Act to grant
CIA a blank check and immunity from being
regular Americans, but this is typical of the
wide path,

the one Samuel asked for when he asked
for a king to be like other nations.

***

A new child is born and with the birth hope.
All can change, the rock and valley stay the
same, good and bad oppose—Lao Tzu
reminding “We cannot change the world.”

It cannot be done!

Then a white coat enters a room with a
“diagnosis.”

Eve came to Adam with a piece of fruit,
how big a deal can all of this be?

Can we go back up to the mountain of
Samuel’s mistake, make God king again?

Can we put the apple back on the tree?

Would we want to be innocent and free?

We are the moment we accept the child
within, that the baby born is us, that zero
place of nothing being everything, total
potential, a smile, perfection.

The child is health, is a blessed state, and
is within us in nature, then again it’s all nature,
isn’t it?

The child knows by sense, we cry when wet,
cold or sick, all of it spinning less like a path,
more like our planets, around and around the
sun of peace.

Feel sick?  Wait.  It passes.

Feel bad, it’s temporary, good the same way,
so beware the intervention—choose it
wisely after prayer.

Never deny God him or herself the time
and space needed to heal and care.

De-Escalate

11 Friday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Gun Control, Military, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Joy, Love, Peace

Thou shalt not kill sounds weak
to the tempted, often vulnerable
warrior enlisted to “defend.”

I love you.  Let me say at the outset
that despite what happened to this
point in your life, there is a Power
that cares, a love that is real.

You do not have to kill a single person.

In fact, it’s better if you do not.

Killing is not self-defense, it never is,
it never was, despite what a drill
sergeant might yell in your face!

A heart’s beat does not have to stop
on the other side of the line, for the
threat of a shooter to stop.  There are
non-lethal approaches, De-Escalation
techniques, Love your Enemy said
God through Jesus Christ—

Love your enemy!!!

True self-defense is lowering your flag
of hate, the fear within you, judgment
and prejudice as you realize the guy
across the fence was born of woman, too.

There are no enemies, just fear and
misunderstanding.  You want to live by
the gun, you must accept dying by it, and just
because no one has shown you care yet,
does not mean that care does not exist.

Walk away.

Take a walk with God in nature.

Don’t believe in or hate God?

Change the name.  Consider Nature,
any Power that is greater than you.

Rest and trust.  See your part in this
life, walk away from death, and see past
the lie that you must kill to survive

The Best Doctor

04 Friday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spiritual

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Love, Peace

God and Health Collage1

The best doctor I usually
capitalize,

In lines that sometimes inspire,
Sometimes surprise—

by chance, nature, or nature’s
changing course untrimmed—

Shakespeare himself, a poet
who believed,

for without humility…

Without humility what would we
the people be?

Humble is the way of truth, keeps
us at our right size,

so for goodness’ sake, let’s not put
other people too high above us,

Save a spot for God.

By God I mean a power greater than
yourself, who knows more than you do…

is more powerful than you are.

Is capable of more loving wisdom than
you are.

And, yes, this power or force can heal,
and will over time if you fast and pray,

meditate long thoughts, breathe, listen
to dreams—ask and ye shall receive,

Jesus the wise, rebellious rabbi declaring
gospel messages dripping with love and

hope for the hopeless!!

Seek and ye shall find!! Yes, and move a
mountain!!!

So, the next time someone tries to tell
you so assuredly, “go to a doctor!!”

Find time to walk in nature, lift your
heart and mind up in prayer,

and ask the Doctor!

“What should I do, LORD?” in the Hebrew
tradition of YHWH without vowels

to keep us from blabbing the Name.

You will get an answer over time or right
on the spot.

Sometimes the answer is hard. Sometimes,
the answer is easy, or

often somewhere in between.

Do what God asks of you and find peace.

And as soon as you declare it, my goodness
you will feel it:

HEALTH!!!!

For health is exactly that which God
provides when you ask…

Peace of mind.

With you all the time, unlocked with prayer,
felt after action or none,

Felt when you know life is good,
and you are not the One.

Love in a Greyhound Bus

06 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Erotic, Explicit, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Love, Sex, Truth

I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.

Whew!

Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!

Poets Don’t Own Cars

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

God, Love, Nature

We rent and we drive on occasion,
but lock us into payments?

Never.

The vroom vroom, powering and
speeding and smoking our way to this
and that?  The noise, the hustle?

We prefer the slow stroll, the train
ride, the bus up the cliff, the hike
mile after mile, five senses becoming
six as we know there is more…

Rooftop to rooftop we hurl headlong
into vacant doorways of hope, dash to
and from buildings of dreams, scents
and poverty bringing us out of metal
and into the sweat of failure.

We must report something and so
stomach the stench, there must be a ground
if we are to elevate.  Support comes from
loving people, we are dedicated to words
but know they are nothing compared to
what we describe,

The ultimate hope of all endeavor to
yield peace of mind, this one mine as I
deny the mechanic’s offer to ditch another
hunk at high speeds—

I take one look back at my old life as
I speed down the freeway of God’s
paradise in my wife’s fast muscle car:

I have an errand to run and I’m tired of
the walk, I’ll play this song, burn this gas
this time, but can’t wait to shed the metal

for a walk again my friend, toward the more
elegant train of rhyme.

50 States of Peace

15 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political, United Nations, World Peace

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

CIA, God, Hope, Joy, Love, Peace, United Nations, USA

Alabama Alaska Arizona Arkansas California Colorado Connecticut Delaware Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York North Carolina North Dakota Ohio Oklahoma Oregon Pennsylvania Rhode Island South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas Utah Vermont Virginia Washington West Virginia Wisconsin Wyoming

Love Forgiveness Unity Togetherness Listening Consensus Effort Courage Resilience Persistence Non-Violence Faith God Remembering History Education Lawfulness Gentleness Moderation Reserve Quiet Loud Freedom Willingness Openness Protection Tolerance Enlightenment Heavenly Giving Spirit Unconditional Responsible Acceptance Action Justice Equality Humility Truth Prosperity Righteousness Service Generosity Goodness Progress Striving Achievement Overcoming Victory Determination

1945:

WE THE PEOPLES OF THE UNITED NATIONS DETERMINED

to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war, which twice in our lifetime has brought untold sorrow to mankind, and to reaffirm faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person, in the equal rights of men and women and of nations large and small, and to establish conditions under which justice and respect for the obligations arising from treaties and other sources of international law can be maintained, and to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom,

AND FOR THESE ENDS

to practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security, and to ensure, by the acceptance of principles and the institution of methods, that armed force shall not be used, save in the common interest, and to employ international machinery for the promotion of the economic and social advancement of all peoples,

HAVE RESOLVED TO COMBINE OUR EFFORTS TO ACCOMPLISH THESE AIMS

Accordingly, our respective Governments, through representatives assembled in the city of San Francisco, who have exhibited their full powers found to be in good and due form, have agreed to the present Charter of the United Nations and do hereby establish an international organization to be known as the United Nations.

1946:

Cloak and Dagger: The Unexpected Beginnings of CIA

Almost 70 years ago, in the blistering cold of a January winter, President Truman hosted a small, secret ceremony at the White House to establish the new Central Intelligence Group (CIG)—the CIA’s institutional predecessor—and to swear in Admiral Sidney Souers as the first Director of Central Intelligence (DCI). This ceremony, however, wasn’t like most official inaugurations: The CIG began its brief existence with a phony cape and a wooden dagger.

The office diary of the President’s chief military adviser, FIt. Admr. William D. Leahy, records the rather unexpected event that took place that day:

January 24, 1946: At lunch today in the White House, with only members of the Staff present, RAdm. Sidney Souers and I were presented [by President Truman] with black cloaks, black hats, and wooden daggers, and the President read an amusing directive to us outlining some of our duties in the Central Intelligence Agency [sic], Cloak and Dagger Group of Snoopers.

CIA Vision, Mission, Ethos & Challenges

Vision:

CIA’s information, insights, and actions consistently provide tactical and strategic advantage for the United States.

Mission:

Preempt threats and further US national security objectives by collecting intelligence that matters, producing objective all-source analysis, conducting effective covert action as directed by the President, and safeguarding the secrets that help keep our Nation safe.

****

We’re for Peace, but we’ll be keeping secrets.

We might take covert action, so United Nations
of the world:

Be on notice, as we host your meetings
in our New York:

We will do whatever we want, whenever
we want, invade Korea, Vietnam,
El Salvador, Guatemala, Chile—

wherever we please, whenever we
please, our capitalist expansion and
defeat of communism more important
than world peace commitments.

Love, Forgiveness, Unity, Togetherness, Listening, Consensus, Effort, Courage, Resilience, Persistence, Non-Violence, Faith, God, Remembering, History, Education, Lawfulness, Gentleness, Moderation, Reserve, Quiet, Loud, Freedom, Willingness, Openness, Protection, Tolerance, Enlightenment, Heavenly, Giving, Spirit, Unconditional, Responsible, Acceptance, Action, Justice, Equality, Humility, Truth, Prosperity, Righteousness, Service, Generosity, Goodness, Progress, Striving, Achievement, Overcoming, Victory, Determination.

The fifty states of peace are there for
you and me.  Wide is the path to
destruction, and many are on it driven
by fear and seven deadly sins, easier to
go with the flow.

To those on the narrow, where I
try to be:

All we can do is live well and point
out our joy, give to others and pray
for Peace.

Apolitical

04 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Anti-Political, Apolitical, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Hillary, JFK, Joy, Love, Peace, Trump

I love life, God—call it what you will,
a mysterious mission to maximize five
senses on our way to a sixth called
peace of mind.

We are political, or not, to the exact
extent politics affects us.

I wanted Reagan to win in 1980 against
Carter, had my reasons, was ready to vote—
they said “Go away, you’re only eight years
old” so I went away until I was eighteen
and “legal” by a discriminatory Constitution.

By then I was drinking alcohol underage
for years, saying “F politics, and you.”

I didn’t care for a while until Saddam invaded
Kuwait, then Bush Sr. lit up the sky with war.

I was all for it, put your body into it, go
get’em armed forces, I mean my uncle was
working for Bush as Secretary of Energy at the
time—a former Chief of Naval Operations.

Breaking the law is political too, and I had been
breaking the law since five on Dad’s lap,
I drank his last sip of bourbon and water.

That put a devil in my life, and murder—among
other things, was okay—so killing Iraqis and war
was just fine with me…

Until I got saved at Betty Ford Center, named after
a president’s wife, I started to find a God that
worked for me, centered in Truth, expression of
it, and the end of fear.

My politics began to change, and as peace came
into my life, non-violence respected, war became
the anti-Christ it always was, but now I saw it.

War no longer served me, unless you go by one
definition of “war” I heard once:

“War is the journey of a seed becoming a flower.”

There’s another, even an opposite way to seeing
all things and matters.

Our political feelings are dormant until something
we love is taken away, or we get annoyed or
offended by a politician or his or her political
act or decree.

“They took away my favorite stop sign, they made
fireworks illegal, they’re thinking of deporting my
maid.”

Something hits home, but until then we’re
“apolitical.”

I had a political awakening almost twenty years
after my spiritual one, in October of 2014.

That’s when I let myself see JFK by Oliver Stone.

When I was firmly on the right, Stone was “a
conspiracy kook.”

But HBO kept airing the dang thing that month,
and one day I sat down and watched it.

*******

CIA killed JFK, that’s clear to me after what has now
been three years of study.

I was apolitical about JFK’s murder until it was
clear they got the wrong guy, that Jackie suffered
PTSD from seeing her husband murdered in a cowardly,
covert way.

The CIA continues to skate, locking up American
documents, their version of omerta as they tweet
how cool they are for not having to obey the law.

Makes me sick in a politicized way, gets one off
the bench and ready to play.

Divorce is a myth, truth is sexy, there’s love in
these lines if annoyed, you read between them.

Loving life and God is good, put what you believe
paramount and enjoy.

But if that ability is taken away or even threatened:

Welcome to politics, you will have to take a stand
or die—the fear used to be that communists would
come from the sky.

Some fears have base, some characterized
by False Evidence Appearing Real, so we
F Everything and Run, those commies are coming
for me, pass me a gun!

Some fear North Korea will hit the red button,
but me—I’m grounded in the solid fact that
we in the United States are as corrupt as any
other station.

We kill our own leaders, lock up evidence, then
parade around “saving other nations.”

God saves, reduces “politics” to just another
passion like art or poetry.

Some are into it, some are not—this argument
about living your life until it suddenly stops.

If politics or law contributed to your loss or
annoyance, I’ll see you at the voting polls
applying the Declaration of Independence.

Vote for Hillary or vote for Donald, go independent
or vote not at all—and accept the fact that there
is a Higher Power in charge, politicians are not
it.

As soon as we realize that, we have peace of mind
right in the middle of political despair’s worst,
saddest pit.

Cancer is a Myth

03 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by Bill Watkins in Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, God, Health, Joy, Love, Mary Baker Eddy, Peace

Death is death, life life, good
and evil separated by clear lines
of wrong and right.

White coats, science, voices of supposed
authority rise against spiritual tides,
seek money, material, a “living” telling
with authority patients things like:

“You are dying. You need me. You need us.
Pay me.  You have insurance, pay me more.”

There is real expertise here and there,
and when I get scraped I seek a bandage
like the next guy.

It’s just that God, not white coats—is in
charge of my life.

The CIA killed JFK, Oswald the cancer
diagnosed by pro-Vietnam anti-Castro
killers prepping to take Cuba back for
capitalism.

Cancer is a myth, complicated diagnoses
for pain, misery and death.

Disease is mostly for the rich, the idle,
for folks with money and time to sit around
and diagnose.

The poor lives or dies.  Wake up or not, are
grateful if awake in another day.

Blessed are the poor, cursed are the earthly
rich; not until we give up our things can we
be content.

I missed the president’s speech about tax
reform, as I was dying in a flood, believing
men can rule over men justly is a moth to the
flame, building homes below the high water
line, but oh what a great view!!

The customer is always last, big corporations
like Verizon and Bank of America taking a pass,
weapons used by cops to kill, never mind the
sixth commandment and my PTSD.

Fireworks boom, we love war then host the
United Nations dedicated to peace, their
charter an ideal impossible to follow while
CIA and FBI tail your car, steal your wallet
and set up murder.

All in the interest of national security, God above
waiting for “them to come back to me…”

Polytheism spreads, each “tumor” spotted we
bow and pray to, sign up for more meds, the
insurance company expanded its drug program,
Hey doc I see a pretty one on TV, will be sure to
take away the pain.

Red ones, blue ones, pink and red—this one’s
for that disease, yell it out and pass the “word!”

You’re working for the devil now, following the
herd—get a faster car, burn more fuel rush around,
the next leader is sure to lead us there.

Yep, another flame.

Cancer is a myth, a tale told by complaint.

What we do when we stop saying thanks.

Thanks for today, God, we don’t know about
tomorrow.  Thanks for today, God, we have no
joys without sorrow.

No health without an occasional cold or pain,
I accept the whole piano—light and dark keys alike,
top to bottom, no bottom without a top—

the top screwed onto the bottom.  Pain is the
thing to overcome not name and call your god,
renounce it, “cancer” and any other name but
God’s and find that bloom on the hill for today,

claim gratitude as your sanity, open up your
curtains to God’s glory.

Stop complaining and call it all “fine,” the
day a blessing, positivist reminders from
Mary Baker Eddy to Ella Wheeler Wilcox speaking
words of faith and health—belief in the sun
making it shine enough for the world to give
up flammable liquid imbibing, making
grape juice from wine,

the gods sunk for Truth to emerge, solitude to
the sour, wheat to the brave, despair to
he who whines, love to the strong who feels
a pain, bears the cross and comes out fine.

Love conquers all, say the words of belief in your
prayer and cast off negative talk.

Step into your day.  It’s all we have, so smile
even through the sad, and when we’re ready to go:

see the celebration that you came, you lived
and you piped the horn of Thanks a few times;
the world was better for your rhyme, and when you
pass you don’t die, your ideas multiply and you smile
in the face of doubt, doctors frowning and pretend
knowledge of futures and dim.

“Thank God for another day.  There is nothing else,
this pain will pass and I’ll smile bigger when it does.
The name I call is God, never disease, and in this
I start with the LORD, then the whole world please.”

Shhh! to cancer and disease, the LORD is working
here.

Never fear, take up your beds and give a cheer!!!

The LORD God is working here!

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