Tag Archives: Montana

Is it Too late to Kill the Railroad?

23 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Livingston

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-by Bill Watkins 6/23/2017

Noise Pollution1

Does anyone else want to know what it was like around here without the railroad?

The noise, the metal, nature neglected, wildlife running for the hills.

I like homes and convenience, going to the market and store for goods, but would be willing to have less of it in return for more quiet.

Killing the railroad might go too far, so how about just slowing it down a bit.

If we slowed it down, the horns could be quieter—horns that should be tested anyway for the damage that could be done to pedestrian ears.

Pedestrians…

Jesus walked, Buddha, Gandhi and MLK getting lots of mileage and social change with their feet, so what about you?

Burning earth and going fast?

I asked a group of kids in Livingston the other day what their passions were, and top among them was dirt motorbiking.  #Loud #Fast #Dangerous.

The Jews in the desert attempted to Please the LORD in all that they did.  When Moses went up the hill, they screwed up and started worshipping false gods, got drunk.

But when it was good, they did everything to Please God.  Burning incense, having bar-b-ques, David playing music, singing and dancing—

All to Please God.

God does not like loud trains, motorbikes that scare wildlife and sleeping children.

Be quiet, America!!!!

First Impressions of Livingston

18 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Livingston, Montana

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-by Bill Watkins 6/18/2017

Livingston2 -- Work Walk Collage

Mixed bag, like anywhere in this savage land most call “America.”

You get by the roads, cement, asphalt and tracks—the cigarette butts and wayside bars to marvel at Mountains.  Wind.  Sky everywhere, and clouds that at once threaten and entertain, swirling at play,

Soccer fields with snow-capped mountain backdrops, old west saloon facades selling thrift and high quality art.

Book stores and hip; music abound.

Bad news travels slow until artists collide; a moment with talented Montana master, Sheila Hrasky shows me Picasso colored West, but I learn of tragedy.

Last year children ended their lives in suicide, so now I read—an adult or two drowning as well.

Shades of Los Angeles and a former life I led in Pasadena, California seems relevant.  I survived two overdoses and years of suicidal depression to come here—15 years sober full of hope, writings, dance and song!!!!!

The Devil is gone from my life, Coach Longfellow teaching me to be a hero in the strife!

Alcohol is a cold friend.  A backstabber up and down Main, Park or wherever deceived.

Walk out of the bar, turn from evil, and feel your pain…

(There is no joy without it, Montana)

The Search for Meaning

06 Tuesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Native, Peace, Poetry, Political

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Ancient Sins, Amends
and Justice

-by Bill Watkins 6/5/2017

Livingston2 -- Work Walk

LORD, help me communicate your message.

Amen.

***

I have left Los Angeles, California in search of meaning, poetic justice—taking my sins east someday across the ocean back to Europe.

I have decided to pass through beautiful Livingston, Montana for a year or two to gain a different experience, to become a man, prepare for England’s colder weather, and to get some financial standing.

410 years ago three Watkins brothers arrived in the land we now call Virginia—a land that was inhabited by a great people.  We, the English, named it what we wanted and called it ours.

We measured ourselves against the natives by skin color, dress and military weapons—saw an “advantage,” sought to conquer.

Our sins are vast.  Sins of judgment, murder, selfishness, ingratitude, ignorance, and self-righteousness.  Sure, we were chased there by religious wars, oppressive social structures and monarchy.

But also greed.  Vanity; the desire for fame and glory, riches—gold and spices.

A name to place in history as the man or men who discovered a new land or route around the world.

Notice no mention of “God” yet.  While our explorers spoke of “mission” and Bible and bringing God to the New World, our actions were GodLESS.

We lived by the gun and sword.  Died by it.  So many of us throughout history to now just on that Jesus-mentioned “wide path to destruction.”

Lao Tzu said “You cannot change the world.  It cannot be done.”

So why write a piece like this?  Why leave Los Angeles?

Why come to Montana, en route to Wales, United Kingdom—home of the Watkins family that stayed in Europe?

Meaning.

For this poet, meaning… For the world, this poet sets out with the gift God directly gave to drive truth into the wide path.

To split that path, and light the trail back to Heaven’s narrow road.

If I believe through fast and prayer that I may move a mountain from there to here, it shall be done.

If I know CIA killed JFK, then covered up the crime—I shall say so, demand truth, and move on to other dark chapters, light them with alacrity.

If I am sure that we owe amends to anyone related to American SLAVES, I shall write that fact—and push us to truth, action and needed reparations.

Hurting others is hurting ourselves.  Killing off Native America, is killing off Nature in this land.

We must stop, restore land to the Native peoples “won” through bloodshed, threats and broken promises—bring Karma back to the land…

The Great Spirit, often forgotten from big cities to the hearts of reservations—sad with despondent reservation, alcohol, depression—will and must rise again.

The Great Spirit will rise when the Native American people rise again, and the land will prosper.

A Third Political party will emerge.  One of peace and love for Mother Earth.

But first I must remove myself back to England.  Back across the sea, and take our sins with me.

I do so for the Cherokee.  For the Sioux.  For the Crow, the Blackfoot, the Tongva out west—all the tribes, together must rise as I leave with God’s spirit East from here to the land of the Celts.

I will take back, finally, the land’s Gold:

Native American Wisdom and Love for Land.

Europe will thrive when I bring this gold back to them.

And meaning will come to me, a life poetic that gave up comfort to honor God.

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!!!