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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Love

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.

Honor Your Mother

03 Tuesday Apr 2018

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

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Joy, Love, Native, Peace

roses-208980__480

It’s not just the woman who bore
you, folks—it’s the Earth that moves you.

The Mother who spins on axis, swirling
around the sun and stars on time

So we can wake up and live and try at life.

So how on Earth can you litter?

Throw your cigarette butt, already littering
your lungs and heart on her?

What devil inhaled you, when you
decided to inhale smoke, killing yourself
slowly over many years?

God bless us to honor our mother.

To live a long time in this land, we
must honor her, and fight to keep her
beautiful.

Honor your mother, man.

Honor your mother, woman.  Honor that
which gave us life, and never

throw trash on her, no matter how low
we go; turn around, it’s better to go
back to pre-civilization, pre-religion,
living naked with the natives than to
roll around in this human-made muck,
helicopters and sirens calling out a warning
shot to the Father god that we don’t care.

Send Samuel back, and ask God to be
king again.

Shhh!  Listen.  Close your eyes.

See yourself caring.  Loving.  God bless us
to honor our Mother and care.

College Scam

31 Saturday Mar 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Dickens, Education, Frost, John Stuart Mill, Joy, Life, Longfellow, Love, Peace, Shakespeare

John Stuart Mill was the first to go through
what we went through, the modern
liberal arts education.

He had a nervous breakdown, before any
of that education was of any use.

In all the classroom work, and work, and
work some more he had never

learned how to Live.

***

The basics in life; feelings expressed, a friend
with whom to talk about real things, no guide
asking him what his dreams were.

Parents’ dreams are another thing, and while
I believe in honoring them, that does not
mean doing their will over God’s for you.

Who is asking you what your dreams are?

If you are a child, and no one is supporting your
dreams, break out now before it’s too late.

A nervous breakdown awaits, if you think
“college” will sort all out for you some day.

Sort it out now.  Live Today!!!!

“And ascending and secure,
Shall tomorrow find its place.”

“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

Alcohol for burning things, youth for free expression
toward our dreams.

Obstacles, teaching Gradgrinds driving facts
as fictions, such as “college” prep over Life
Prep we must overcome

“Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.”

Break out or breakdown, live your true
purpose or be sheep to shear and slaughter
on the way to shattered hope.

Choose a higher power, step away for
truth to shine, get strong and build your
spiritual home invincible against

the wide pound of rain that has been
other peoples’ ideas for you.

Multi-Colored

22 Thursday Mar 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

I am not white.

They call me white, those who seek
to box me in, probably from pain of
being boxed in themselves.

Black, brown, tan and pink—the color
of skin and hair, eyes that care,
the multi-colored reality that is
difference, in the soul…

which dreams to be free of your
restriction or theirs, color blind
to the time or look, the thinness of
superficial appearance having nothing
to do with the substance of life’s
dance,

the journey a neat ride of overcoming
obstacles, unless you choose to die.

***

I chose to live, after my friend killed
himself; I overdosed twice trying to
decide what “death” was and that if
perhaps I wanted to taste it.

I hurt myself, I found God through
the muck of alcohol, drugs and lies,
the kind that divides—doctors’ offices
stealing from the public treasury so
our sidewalks fester in trash, cracks
and flies—

No intentional harm done, but the
devil running us away from God into
that office.

“Please, person with multiple college
degrees, tell me what to do.  My life
in…”

SAY IT!!!! the devil hopes, SAY IT!!!  Put
your life in a doctor’s hands, put your life
in a fellow fallible human’s weakness,
and I, sayeth the Punk, I have you!!!!

***

Or say no.

Say no to waste, to superficial haste,
to judging because you once were judged,
turn the other cheek as Jesus advised,
or do nothing as Lao Tzu supplied.

For nothing is a far cry, and far better indeed
than doing Something dumb.

God is the Best Health Care

21 Wednesday Mar 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in God, Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Love, Peace, Truth

Believe in yourself!

Believe God made you right, perfect
for who you are and when you were born—

there is nothing wrong—are you alive?

If “Yes,” say “Thanks!” and go help
someone in the few minutes we get
on earth to make an impact!

Pray to something big.  Live good days,
and if you feel a lot of pain—

bearing a cross can yield a rainbow from
the rain!  No pain and no gain my sweet,

I gave a few bucks to a dentist once to
pull out my teeth!  Grateful for that, and
some doctors’ expertise.

But let’s take all Western Medicine with
a grain of salt—not alcohol!  Let’s be a little
tougher, know it’s okay just to let
nature heal us—

Something that can’t be done very well
in a metal box firing down the freeway at
seventy miles per hour.

We have to live on the ground a bit to truly
see the vision—see your power!

“I have a vision,” the sober say when they
wake feeling good like a child at Christmas
time.

We deify too many things, but relax:

It’s exactly as it seems!

Words are the glue we spew to fill the seams.

The talk of equality nothing compared to
the Dream!

(It’s a Martin Luther King thing!)

95 theses tacked on a door to rise up
and live while alive, avoid the place
where too many flies fly—

Keep as clean and sanitary as you can
without obsessing and calling your
doctor now, then and again and again.

Trust your body!  Believe in yourself!

Take up your bed, Lazarus!—or Bob, Robby,
Ricky and Mike—Darla, wouldn’t it be darling
to don the smile of the healthy while the
health appeared to be falling.

“Fake it ‘til you make it!”

Read a Henry Longfellow poem, better
yet a positivist Ella Wheeler Wilcox rant!

“Optimism” reminding us that when you
speak health, God will hear your words…

And make them true.

To Los Angeles:

24 Saturday Feb 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Los Angeles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Politics

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Los Angeles, Love, Peace

50/50 with a Fringe on Top

***

Welcome to Betty Ford.

We must recover, many of us know this,
but have we admitted yet that we have
a problem?

L.A. is not the greatest city in the world—

But it could be.

It could lead like the LAPD in Lethal
Force Policy—Matt Johnson and the
commission talking De-escalation,
Obama taking notice, the nation
watches and seeks good Ideas.

Ideas!!!

Something whose creation money cannot
buy.

Private Campaign Spending should be
now and forever outlawed, right
next to hiring a pedestrian cleaning
force—call them “Street Angels”—

We must clean this city from the bottom
to the top, let’s trim the budget of
fat—like the bloated salaries of political
hacks.

This is supposed to be a humble service job;
how much did John Adams spend to
become President?  I think it was $0.00
because he was a lawyer with land in
the private sector—

I recommend to our leaders that if it
is riches you want… Invent something.

Get out in the private sector with your
skills, which should be protected by
the public sector… and make a ton of
money.

City Council?  The Mayor?  A Police Chief?

A Supervisor for the County? Where wages
start at 200,000 dollars a year?

And we wonder why graffiti plagues us—
it’s a revolution, a rebellion saying “Screw
you, suits!  You have forgotten us, are not
protecting us, are not maintaining our
roads, sidewalks and communities so we
formed a gang to secure ourselves.”

“Gangs” could be budgeted out of existence.

Maybe fund Animal Services to enforce
every code instead of running a public zoo.

Enforce every code.

Don’t play with illegal fireworks—

eradicate it.  Budget them away, put our
heads together, take a walk from border
to border in your district and note how
many clogged storm drains you see.

People tell me sometimes, watching me
clean, that the problems are too vast
and deep—and what you clean today
just comes back tomorrow!

So come back tomorrow and clean again.

God bless us to rethink our bloated
salaries, “benefits” which often include
non-emergency “health” care which government
should never grapple.

“What is health?” is answered differently
by every person, like choosing a religious
faith—in fact my health program is my religious
faith (Christian Science) and by the First
Amendment, Congress shall pass no law on it.

Wake up!

Lazarus, take up thy bed and follow me
into the fixable gutters and graffiti of L.A.,
the bombs exploding from June through August,
the rebellion—folks without a voice, disenchanted
with you, voter turnout poor, as we shake
our heads at the mailbox—

Filling up with the Trash that is private
campaign spending.

“Vote for me!” on an expensive post card.

“Don’t Vote For Her!” in despicable color
and glossy font.

While our sidewalks crumble, the Homeless
waiting not on “housing” as much as
a purpose.

Give us day labor posts, a morning lineup
for a job to clean our city for eighty-five
dollars a day.

I’ll be first in that line, let’s fan out, out
of our offices and suits, but if addicted to
them, give me a bib and a broom, pay me

and watch this place start to shine.

Our budget should be fifty percent
safety, fifty percent infrastructure.

Anything not related to those two things
should, like fringe stuck in a storm drain—

be taken out

Soft on CIA for 70 Years

17 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Article, Articles, Blog, Blogs, Political

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

CIA, Joy, Love, Peace

Our Complicity in Crime and Deception

—by Bill Watkins 1/17/2018

CIA1

According to their corrupt, criminal-leaning Twitter bio blurb, the Central Intelligence Agency accomplishes “what others cannot accomplish,” goes “where others cannot go.”

They have been that blatantly un-American and pompous since their formal christening on the White House lawn in 1946.  Not without reason, the group was spawned from world war, fears of communism’s spread.  Fear was allowed to legislate, similarly to how President Andrew Jackson legislated Cherokee Indians off their native land to get to apparent gold reserves.

Greed and lust are neighbors of fear, it’s safe to say—a fear of not having enough.

Fear kept slavery around years after it was outlawed in England.  Few in the South could conceive of working their own land, having become addicted to the lie that their white skin made them superior to dark-skinned people.  Fear kept the slaves in line until the 1860’s blow-up of war and a start to freedom.

Fear reared its head in Jim Crow South, was confronted and defeated by Martin Luther King Jr. and others who harnessed the teachings of Jesus, God, the bible and a little man who kicked the British out of India after World War II.

***

But fear keeps the CIA in operation, even with their shady, diabolical mandate:

CIA Mission

“…conducting COVERT ACTION” and “safeguarding the secrets that help keep our Nation safe!?!?!?!?!??!!?” In a democracy?  Secrets?

No, thank you.

***

I’m all for discretion in diplomacy and government action; wait until all the information is there, then decide and publish. That is fine, to me.

But Secrets???  I don’t know a healthy one.  And I can’t imagine one surrounding the Murder of John F. Kennedy fifty-five+ years ago, for instance, that cannot be known by all Americans and the world today.

Oswald’s attorney post-death, Mark Lane, used to claim that in many cases, the CIA and FBI classify documents and information as “Top Secret” simply because it embarrasses those agencies.  In his book, Plausible Denial (Thunder’s Mouth, 1991, pp. 121-3), Mark relates a conversation he had with ex-CIA analyst, Victor Marchetti, who had written a tell-all about CIA activities that was not allowed by U.S. courts to be published until certain redactions were made.  (The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence, Knopf, 1974)

While defending Marchetti and Liberty Lobby against a 1984 libel suit by CIA’s Howard Hunt, Mark asked Victor about the redactions in his book.  None of the redactions had anything to do with national security, according to Lane—but all of them had one common ingredient: agents would be embarrassed, if the true story reached the public eye.

Mark then includes an example where the CIA spent American taxpayer money to cut open a cat and place a recording device in its tail, so they could get a feline grab of foreign leaders’ conversations at an embassy party.  The experiment failed, when it seemed the cat was more interested in caviar than espionage, and finally became obsessed with critter noise in the embassy walls.

The anonymous call to that embassy enlightening them on their rodent problem was an expensive home improvement tip to make, paid for by American citizens, locked up as a covert operation, classified “Top Secret.”

The CIA and FBI justify redactions and in keeping entire documents from public view with Section 102(d)(3) of the National Security Act of 1947, which states:

That the Director of Central Intelligence shall be responsible for protecting intelligence sources and methods from unauthorized disclosure…

***

What happened to Congress?  The Bill of Rights?  Democracy and transparency in a government supposedly run by the People for the People?

Slinking around secretly, killing, plotting, stealing…

Quite a resume for admission to the peace-loving United Nations!

That the United States of America would host that organization in New York is comical in light of all the acts of war perpetrated by CIA, from propaganda campaigns to propping up dictators, assassination programs and other war games too long to list, and too secretive to fully expose.

Martin Luther King has been widely quoted of late, as he should be.  A quote that keeps arising out of racist remarks from the White House refers to the complicity of those who do not stand up to such remarks:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

The CIA—its Howard Hunt, Frank Sturgis, and anti-Castro Cuban killers—were not the only ones to kill John F. Kennedy on November 22nd, 1963; Martin Luther King on April 4, 1968; Robert F. Kennedy on June 6th, 1968; Archbishop Oscar Romero on March 24th, 1980; and John Lennon on December 8th, 1980.

We all kill Jack, Martin, Bobby, Oscar and John every day we fail to probe into facts, call out the lies, demand justice, transparency and true democracy from our government. Our government, not the post-World War II perversion that is covert CIA, an organization which still plagues truth and accomplishes “what others cannot accomplish,” and goes “where others cannot go.”

Senator Diane Feinstein and Congress slapped wrists hard regarding George W. Bush-age CIA torture, but today I appeal to her and others to go further.

Join me, reader.  And go further!!

In Third Grade…

16 Tuesday Jan 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholism, Joy, Love, Peace

In third grade I knew enough to
know what I wanted, who I wanted—
and was even a year from knowing
who I wanted to vote for in
November.

But no adult asked or cared about
what I wanted, who I wanted, or
even who I might want to vote for
in November.

And the adults controlled me.  I backed
off my dreams:

To be a professional athlete, to love
and marry Anne Devereux, and to
have a vote because I wanted to be
a part of and help this country.

By eighteen years old I was drinking
flammable alcohol underage, breaking
laws, flipping the bird at hope and
politics, a racist, chauvinist pig unable of
expressing love for Anne or anyone.

At home was alcohol and “divorce,”
the misnomer some so excited to
pronounce against Jesus’ truth that “man
cannot separate what God has bound”—

it explains the private frown, as I walked
around, pretending to be fine—the Old French
word meaning “end.”

Friends:

The devil is tough, and wide is destruction’s
path—this is not now nor will life ever
be easy!!

Take a hard line against alcohol, and at least
look it up in a dictionary “what it is” and decide
if it’s smart to imbibe it.

Maybe the grape is better than the spoil
that makes intoxicating wine—

the pain of loss and hardship felt better than
the alcoholic escape into buzz and fake
views on men and women breaking
vows before God.

It’s not the messenger but the message
that shines, when I attempt to bring you:

“Children!”

After God, “Children!”

Drink not spoiled toxic waste, feel your
short term pain to get long-term gain,

and listen to our children!!

They want what they want, for me starting
around eight—

Money for school could have been parlayed
to the serious coach taking my dream
seriously;

Someone would have asked if I was in
love, and I would have said “yes,” but
I was not asked, felt judged anywhere
near the topic, and had no God to
give me courage to tell her the truth.

Shhh.

To give what we did not get is tough.

Shhh.

Listen to the child and what they’re worth.

Some even read better than a man forty-three;
are ready to vote, and help our country.

Racist “President”

12 Friday Jan 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Racism, Trump

The devil is strong, don’t get me wrong—
and we humans are wise not to ever
judge other humans.

But stating truth is a good first step,
and though we’ve had corrupt and sinful
humans in “office” before—

(CIA killing people covertly, locking
up documents in government omerta,
pretending “democracy…”

The devil runs a lot of what we do—
wide the path to destruction, and many
people on it!)

***

But there is no excuse for the rise of
a KKK, Hitler-style mein Trumph red-faced
hater of a racist

in the highest executive office of this
often corrupt government.  Often off,
yes, but usually striving

until the hatred for the nation’s first
black president rose among the white
type, say “elites,”

and the misogynistic, ignorant ultra-white
wing tearing town a woman out of hand
as not “military” tough…

“We hate Hillary” turned by Russian bots
and linking hands with neo-Nazis into
the Donald Trump platform.

His dad, Fred Trump, was arrested for
fighting with the KKK against those damned
Catholic New York cops.

***

It is tempting to be hateful and judgmental
at hate and judgment, but I will refrain, pray
for Trump and

all confused, racist people.  People who
often were raised wrong, with lies
all around them.

The lies come from hard times, are a defense
mechanism against a real or perceived
block to one’s way of life.

Donald’s dad faced what he faced, being
German when he was—was he hiding
his Nazi card, making

a habit of lying, saying they were “Swedish”
to keep the money coming in as Immigrants
to America?

Did Donald see those lies, absorb them, become
a liar, develop defenses about who he was and
where he was from?

Was there a deep down and low inferiority
complex that created Hitler?  Did that same
inferiority create Trump?

Give Hitler credit for honesty, he was out of the
closet, an obvious violent racist—while Trump
harbors hate in

secret waters, stirred up by certain reporters
and probes at certain times.  “Take a knee”
slave and be whipped;

“Jews will not replace us” from “good people,”
the Confederate monuments are our culture
and history,

Never mind Heather Heyer, or that hate
produced a murder: “We must preserve
our racist culture,”

Trump seems to say, from a stolen seat—
one sold out by Republicans to any candidate
that could Hillary beat.

Forget morals, forget effort, forget progress,
and world peace.  (That could be a Twitter
bio blurb for CIA,

but I was at first thinking about Republicans
like my aging father now passed, who was duped
into a Trump vote.

A racist vote.  The vote for hate.  The vote stirred
up by people’s hatred for non-white advance,
feeling “replaced”

by superior education in non-white speakers,
pundits and politicians.  “Women should know
their place,” speaks Ignorance

and Trump’s every other word a lie to
keep his dad’s secrets safe.  It’s okay to admit
you’re a Nazi, Donald—

and I’ll tell you why:

Nazis sprung from the first World War, a horrible
Hell of a place.  Violence, death, insanity and
a crippling treaty

lacking benevolence or thought toward
Germany’s innocent children, growing up
in the 1920’s while

we got drunk and flapper-danced our
way to record stock market highs.  The
rise of Hitler

and German hatred stirred up war and
Fred Trump.  It is understandable, as Fred
was a landlord

in New York, accused of discrimination
by Woody Guthrie: “Beach Haven is Trump’s Tower
Where no black folks come to roam.”

Fred’s son in Fred’s image, racist and
red-faced in private, “not a racist bone in
my body,”

he says until you discern and discover
Trump’s code-language, and here is the key:
Most major statements

he makes: the opposite is true.)

***

So, we have a racist person—who most-
likely stole the office—sitting in the White
House, supposedly

representing this region of the world to
other parts of the world.

***

Sad.  Embarrassing.  The first time any
“president” of the United States made
me cry.

Call me a snowflake, CIA—you have made
me cry many times, killing Kennedy,
Martin, Kennedy, and Lennon—

Taking out Romero in El Salvador to top
it off—any minister or peace-lover
against your war agenda.

***

Now a racist “president” character
assassinating every person world-wide who
is not “white” or European-rooted.

I pray for Trump, who was born into
racism; has never known the glory of
spirit that emanates

without prejudice from the spirited;

be they black, white, red or brown,
the healing blue I send to you, for
racism and

bigotry was in me once too!  I was
ignorant, pre-spiritual awakening, drinking
flammable liquid

(so praying to false gods), and I brought
down all “others” from women to
different races.

It was the wrong way, but I could not
buck it until I could trust someone
enough to tell truth.

Donald, may you find love and truth;
may God come to you, reveal Him
or Herself—

same goes for the CIA, its evil “covert”
insanity, and to the sellout GOP, who
stirred up hate

by standing with Trump against the
first Woman who should have been
president.

To follow the first black man in the office.

Those words: “women” and “black,” “African
American” and “wives”—these are to be put down
to the racist,

not voted into office.  To the bigot.  To the
chauvinistic misogynistic, confused bedeviled
folks…

I love you.

The Christmas Spirit

24 Sunday Dec 2017

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

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace

Christmas Spirit

It’s what we make of the season
that matters, as we light the fire—

Memories to mean something,
the pagan wreath unmistakably

smelling pretty, us and the earth
connecting at Solstice, the Roman
nose and will bending to the love
of Jesus and his words, a birth
reminding us of ours and those we love.

God shines no matter what we do;
the rose as sweet no matter the name.

Christmas spirit in a song or in a game!

Fun with Dad, because he so believed.
Shining paths for those we raise, it’s
theirs this canvas to paint, but
the wreath…

The wreath is a pre-religion relic
of the un-named God.

We are infants once.  We look up,
explore the five senses developing a
ready sixth that celebrates Christmas.

The staunch Jewish temple bows
to fresh greenery and lights.  The warmth
of the fire driving away the cold of night!

The Muslim heart as full as mine as
we reduce the height and all of life
to now.

God, Jehovah, One truth and bright.

By any other name we find
Constantine’s invention of a birthday
party in the middle of winter fun
like a brisk wind’s flowing kite, or
a clown’s smile at the speed of the clock

ticking away at bodies while the spirit soars.

We cannot escape the wind or the rain;
the cold an annual dance to make
us cuddle toward the sun.

We place a red coat on our back, smile
and celebrate Christmas—

the wreath on the kite of the clown’s
winter mask, rolling toward eternity.

The only place age cannot bother me

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