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Tag Archives: Native

Talgarth Graves

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Britain, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Talgarth, Wales

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Britain, Conquest, Joy, Love, Native, Native America, Native Americans, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spain, Talgarth, Truth, Wales

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.

Mi Familia Mexicana

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Bilingual, Español, Family, Mexico, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, San Miguel de Allende, Spanish

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Tags

Family, Joy, Love, Mexico, Native, Peace, Poem, Poema, Poesia, Poetry, San Miguel de Allende, Spanish

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 la 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 años…

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.

Wingandacoa

09 Saturday Nov 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Britain, Conquest, Imperialism, John Smith, Love, Native, Native America, Native American, Nature, Peace, Pemisapan, Poem, Queen Elizabeth, Sir Walter Raleigh, Treachery, Truth, Vanity, Violence, Virginia, Wingandacoa, Wingina

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.

I Got My…

01 Sunday Sep 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Native, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Truth, USA

Headshot -- Bill Watkins

I got my eyes from my mom,
she got hers from Scandinavian
Winters and endless days unseen
between songs, Viking memories
and Celtic dreams.

I got my soul from pain, rap music
and jazz from Dad and the strange
winds in life that turn Welsh into
“American,” stolen land and the
sin of slavery to work it.

A black nanny raised me, as one
raised Dad, his dad I’m sure
the same, in the deep south
still awaiting freedom and the
return of Native people—

whose gold was wisdom and love for
the land.  Unfortunately the
British and Spanish crowns, among
others sought metal and cash only,
skipped that which could

have been truly brought back
to save them more than even
great bible messages!

I got my humor from God
as I understand God, at the time
I prayed for one it was the
Judeo-Christian kind, biblical
certainly, then add to it some
Alcoholics Anonymous truth
and flavor, Al-Anon for the
family members or friends
of drunks.

I got poetry from the same
source a year before in 1995,
started to tell the truth,
has led me to more and more
until I now demand it from myself
and others.

I got some wisdom, as I spoke
of before—from the Native
American chiefs, who lived close
to and with the land.  They were
one with the Earth, listened and
knew how to live here.

Harmony and song, between us
and our lives;

the poetry of birth, landing, leaving—
dreaming and living those dreams.

The vision, inspiration—being
true to our callings;

Yell the truth with me, “We
Stole Land.”

***

I got my injuries from mistakes,
what hurts me most teaches
and challenges, the game so
fair it seems unfair!

I got to go, soon to remove
myself from Native American
land, I got my plan from the
conscience I got, when I
got sober and started to work
the twelve steps.

I got some peace listening to
the Tao Te Ching; Bibles and gospels
of nature, trying the impossible
task of capturing truth in words,
paper and ink, computer screens
and social media posts…

I’ll be saying this with a sigh,
as Frost said, somewhere ages and
ages—you know…

I got my song for the day, and
it’s been good, a day is life, karma
play, working no longer alone but
for the Great Spirit, the inkless god.

I’d rather be a poor original than
a fancy, loud, flying fraud

Let’s Stop the War

01 Sunday Sep 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in History, Poetic Blog, Politics, USA

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Native, Peace, USA

Native Map of America

by Bill Watkins, Land Thief, 9/1/2019

We’ve been waging war on this land ever since Columbus first “discovered and conquered” the West Indies for Catholic Spain.  First the Spanish, then the English in a land called Wingandacoa—which they changed to “Virginia” after Elizabeth I, the virgin queen, who King James loosely quotes in his first Virginia Charter of 1606:

…our licence to make habitacion, plantacion and to deduce a colonie of sondrie of our people into that parte of America commonly called Virginia, and other parts and territories in America either appartaining unto us or which are not nowe actuallie possessed by anie Christian prince or people…

“If they’re not Christian—take it,” was the attitude.  By force.  Build a fort, plantations, seek gold, bring most back to the Crown, take some for yourself, call yourself an admiral and own the land you find.  Never mind the native people and their way of life; that there was more to heaven and earth than was dreamt of in European philosophy!  Some could dismiss this all as history, if we lived in the United States of Native American Nations.  But we do not.

We live on stolen land, most of us, while its original caretakers have been pushed nearly off the map into tiny reservations.  The native people loved the land, used it wisely, moderately and with great care.  They were grateful for it, the seasons, lived in and amongst nature in a cycle of life that didn’t need books or written law codes to direct. Their art was composed by the Great Spirit; the waterfalls, valleys and rivers along with wildlife provided their entertainment and joy.

There’s the Gold, Britain!  There, the precious resource, the eternal commodities of Gratitude, Wisdom and love for the Land!

But no.  We have our bibles, our guns—they, these savages, must leave while we erect Europe Part II in this glorious land.  We’ll run our concrete and asphalt over it, build our buildings, drive our vehicles—burn the earth the natives cherished in order to go faster, higher and farther…  If there was a flame, we’d be a moth bound for it, and so there was and that flame was war.  And we are still waging that war in the city of Los Angeles, formerly Otsungna—the native place of roses.  From military to paramilitary police, we equate might with right still, pat ourselves on the back as we kill silence with our helicopters and sirens,

then we train to kill and kill our fellow human beings, if the mood strikes us, call it self-defense, say the Constitution allows us to have guns and shoot people.  Good guys and bad guys, calling ourselves Christian, while Jesus’ words echo unheard: “Only God is good,” he said, but what is he next to our own will to steal and destroy land the native people used to love and revere?  The USA is a sad ruse of stealing land, breaking from England, and playing house.

The native Great Spirit is still king here.  Get ready, if you’ve never felt it, for its proud light is soon returning, as this land thief soon removes himself.  And some day I plan to bring “gold” back to my queen or king, teach them the native ways of loving our land.

Land Theft Invalidates USA

30 Friday Aug 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in History, Native, Native American, Poetic Blog, Politics, USA

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

America, History, Love, Native, Native America, Peace, Politics, Truth, USA

Native People Mapping1

by Bill Watkins 9/5//2019

Men will not think that robbers and pirates have a right of empire over whomsoever they have force enough to master, or that men are bound by promises which unlawful force extorts from them.  —John Locke

Land theft is no basis for a valid government.  Someone could appeal to violence and war, rationalize the European conquest of the Americas, but underneath the movement and close to the soil of this land is the truth that crimes against humanity established the thirteen colonies, who rebelled against England to assert themselves as the United States of America, while America’s original inhabitants were to be killed off, subdued, moved and forgotten.  A criminal for-profit enterprise, leaving us with usurped land, its native inhabitants pushed into small reservations—a miniscule percentage of their natural inheritance—people who never gave consent to be governed by Europeans, and never should.

When Queen Elizabeth chartered Sir Walter Raleigh’s exploration of the American eastern coast in 1584, she granted him license “to discover, search, finde out, and view such remote, heathen and barbarous lands, countries and territories, not actually possessed of any Christian Prince.”  The first “Virginia Charter” backed up that thought, as King James urged English adventurers to “bring the infidels and salvages living in those parts to humane civilitie and to a setled and quiet govermente.”  Professed Christianity would help the English usurp the land called Wingandacoa by the natives, James ordering his sailors to propagate the “Christian religion to suche people as yet live in darkeness and miserable ignorance of the true knoweledge and worshippe of God.”

Having studied native American culture diligently for a few years, sober for twenty years, sensitive and aware, hungry for truth, it is clearer to me every day that it was the alcohol-consuming, cursing, armor and gun-loving Europeans—not the natives—who lived in darkness and miserable ignorance of the truth that the Earth was to be honored, respected and preserved. That guns, explosions, killing and noise were not strength but weakness.  And strength?  Witness a piece of it in the eloquence of a great native chief:

From Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, there came a great unifying life force that flowed in and through all things—the flowers of the plains, blowing winds, rocks, trees, birds, animals—and was the same force that had been breathed into the first man.  Thus all things were kindred, and were brought together by the same Great Mystery.  

Chief Luther Standing Bear1

Chief Luther Standing Bear, Oglala Lakota Sioux

Like the English, the Spanish were guilty of land theft, starting with Columbus’ 1492 raid, leading to a threatening letter from King Ferdinand to the Taino-Arawak people of the West Indies.  In the letter, King Ferdinand informs the native people that the Pope is the ruler of the world, the bible’s God is the ruler of the universe, and that Spain shall be the ruler of all non-Christian lands they discover.  Should any of the native tribes resist, the Spanish would declare “war upon you from all sides and with all possible means, and we shall bind you to the yoke of the Church and of Their Highnesses.”  Further that “we shall enslave your persons, wives and sons, sell you or dispose of you as the King sees fit; we shall seize your possessions and harm you as much as we can as disobedient and resisting vassals.”

And so these supposed Christian people stole land, people who touted a bible that forbade stealing.  We erected laws and a Constitution that also forbade stealing, even though the privilege to write laws and hold land here was obtained through armed theft. Usurpation and theft can never be a valid basis for government, something John Locke proposed and I hereby second today.

…the aggressor, who puts himself into the state of war with another, and unjustly invades another man’s right, can, by such an unjust war, never come to have a right over the conquered…

Yes, Sir John, you speak the truth.  So should all of us, so should all of us!

The True Colossus

30 Friday Aug 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in History, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, USA

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Emma Lazarus, Freedom, Native, Parody, Statue of Liberty, Truth, USA

Colossus1

Not like the racist giants that seek fame,
With orange hair, brawn and very big hands;
Here at port in New York, on stolen land
A mighty French statue of a lady and flame
Is the symbol of euphemized conquest and shame
Mother Earth and natives tamed, freedom a sham
Glows world-wide welcome, to all but Indians
The New Europe slapped down in Jesus’ name.
“Keep, ancient lands, your empire!” cries she
With loud police.  “Give me your slaves and more,
Your gathered weapons as vast as the sea,
The wretched ignorant knocking at our door.
Send these, the homeless, ignorantly to me,
We ruined Native America, nature itself with war.”

Cop Choppers Violate Our Rights

28 Wednesday Aug 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in LAPD, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Native, Peace, Truth

LAPD Helicopter1

by Bill Watkins, Land Thief, 8/28/2019

***

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated… 

My home and neighborhood was just assaulted by a reckless LAPD chopper, circling and zig-zagging low, loud and fast over our homes.  With a spotlight searching.  It was after nine o’clock at night, and the lack of direction of the metal war machine tells that this was some misguided patrol or stunt, without a particular point of search.  Disgusting.

We’ve allowed ourselves to go pretty low by our uninhibited attempts at flight.  The vanity of man.  Of European man and descendants, to come to this land, kick off native people committed to a natural, peaceful life that respected the earth… to burn the earth, fly over citizens shining lights into our properties with or without cause, calling it public safety!  It’s tempting to be mad at all of this, but I resist, love and forgive our confused brothers and sisters of the “law,” who I imagine have very hard lives to end up in such a lonely, loud metal box running war ops for a “living.”

Sometimes I think folks of our militaries and para-military police forces have trouble with peace.  Wouldn’t know what to do, if peace came around; their jobs, in fact, dependent on bad things happening and response.  Are there incentives for them to do nothing?  Are we ready for peace?  Is a Gang Unit prepared to disband, when we stop warring against gang communities—start loving and securing them properly?

The mandate from England and Spain to explore, discover and conquer lands “not actually possessed of any Christian Prince” continues to pollute this land.  Guns, bibles, and conquering is perfectly embodied in that loud police chopper disturbing the peace and violating privacy rights above me tonight.  To snatch it down from the sky and encourage that pilot and his or her bosses to walk down a good trail is why I write—

My pen now engaged for the rights of native peoples whose lands my descendants stole.  I plan to remove myself soon, to head eventually back to England, inform the Crown of the mass amounts of gold I found.  It was not a shiny rock we needed, dear England, but the wisdom of the Native Americans and their love for the land!

Shailene

25 Sunday Aug 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in beauty, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Earth, God, Love, Native, Peace, Shailene Woodley

Shailene2

I write of the hope of
the new, presented faces
and forms first seen on screen
or live in person, you see her
in a market, him crossing the
street, at the beach or in a lot
we stole from native America.

Peace and eternity shine in
those born and growing toward
truth and revolution.  The revolving
door revolves and we crash into
vivid rainbow eyes of amber,
gold, brown and green, earth
tones defending the planet
against more theft.

It’s tempting to use her in
a film, to turn Descendants into
Lolita part two, the director and
all mesmerized by youthful
willingness, but real men and
women know when to hold
back, when to bow, be humble
and how to honor life.

There’s endless hope in those
eyes; God help us honor the
Creation, our parents and our
first people instincts—

which know we honor best
by staying close to earth,
the right place for love tonight.

Otsungna

22 Thursday Aug 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in California History, History, Los Angeles, Native, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Indigenous, Joy, Lost Angeles, Love, Native, Native America, Peace, Stolen Land, Theft

Wild Roses2

I am not where I thought I was, a
deeper look… a willingness to open;
change rains down valleys of doubt
to shine in the upside down rhythm
that is not fully mine!

El Sereno is a Spanish word.  Bairdstown
sort of English, but before that was
the indigenous Otsungna—the place of
roses, making white guests think of
names not fully mine!

I was here because I was born of woman
in nearby Pasadena, Chippewa for “Crown
of the Valley,” and before all the names—
the land was how it was, and it was as true,
forming, being in time!

The Jewish God created, the native Great
Spirit too; Jesus was a wonderful son
and teacher preaching poverty to the
masses, making pain a blessing?  Wide is
destruction’s path line!

Kanekuk said the land belongs to the Great
Spirit, be it man or woman, woman or man,
no matter the words—a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet, Borgesian fictions
dancing to beats and rhyme!

Honoring our father and our mother, we
can live a long while in the land given,
the Jewish God on the page, Niagara
and other feats of nature defining the
Eternal art that shines!

And yet we litter El Sereno, which litters
Bairdstown, which littered Otsungna—which
tried to live as one with nature, the Great
Spirit, Creation.  Sometimes when you win,
you lose, it’s a shame!

The hope is in staying awake, remembering
the beginning, planting and replanting
first plants, calling on the first names,
asking native nations to return here and
help us grow our lives!

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