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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Poem

American Cowardice

09 Wednesday Mar 2022

Posted by Bill Watkins in America, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Russia, Ukraine

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

America, Courage, Cowardice, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Russia, Ukraine, USA, War

America11

We come from a long line
of runners.

I’m talking about the white
people who left Europe to
establish a new nation on
First People blood.

Now the Ukrainians ask for
help and the American answer
seems to be:

Bleed first!

“We don’t want to enter into
a war with Russia, so…”

So we’ll watch on TV while
Russians kill Ukrainian babies,
raze towns and nuclear sites,
satisfied that we have levied
“strong sanctions.”

Sanctions.

“Suspect, stop raping that girl
or we will be forced to levy
sanctions against you and your
closest friends!”

Sanctions.

Because we don’t want to make
Putin mad.

Heaven forbid, we upset the
murderer into more murders.

He wields a nuclear threat
and takes the world hostage,

while the West cowers like
it’s 1984;

like the threats have not come
from a third rate economic power,

but the mighty USSR.

Locked in the 80-year Cold War
flinch, that yells out “No Nukes!”
like a TS tick.

Sure we hit the D-Day beaches,
acts of courage from every era
apparent.

But how many Jews had to die
on our watch before we
showed up late to that fight?

The ultimate courage is to
stand up without a loud,
dishonorable exploding gun!

To face an enemy with your heart
exposed, counting coup, Jesus’ turn the
other cheek, love them to change like
Gandhi and Martin taught us
could work!

But if the military is your brand of
defense, as the USA claims:

Use it to defend the innocent
against bullies around the world.

Use it in the face of empty threats
of nuclear bombs – folks like Putin
who will bully with that threat,

who will hold cowards hostage.

Circumcised

01 Tuesday Mar 2022

Posted by Bill Watkins in Circumcision, Health, Men's Health, Poem, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholism, Circumcision, Health, Intact, Intactivism, Joy, Love, Men's Health, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Recovery

baby crying1

I’m glad they had me—
it’s been nice…
But why did they cut me—
Why am I circumcised?

In the first weeks of life:
Sexually abused. Molested—
Strapped to a table,
masturbated and sliced—

Despite my cries…
Despite my cries…
All because of a bible verse that lies—
Masturbated and sliced—

Newborn and hardly alive.

“Then what?” says I, from the
haze that dissipates with every sober hour…
I learned some sports
(while my damaged penis tried to heal).

I learned to drink a flammable
liquid on stolen land.
(“what’s the deal?”)

How could I learn to love?
Shyness when it mattered,
hurt I avoided life’s realities,
even good ones.

I imagined and abused myself,
found my way to pornography
seeking comfort for lost foreskin.

Unprotected, un-lubricated,
Seeking manual stimulation at
the point a normal, intact man
would come, satisfied.

All because the bible lied.

“Due to Covid-19”

16 Tuesday Nov 2021

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bad Behavior, Behavior, Christianity, Covid, Covid-19, Creator, God, Joy, Love, Native, Native American, Panic, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spirituality, Truth

Rude1

The great excuse to misbehave,
not come to work, not say hello,
not shake a hand…

“Don’t even look at me,” says
the disease that treats everyone
like a disease…

Please. Covid response by
corrupt, confused governments,
anti-social germaphobes—

Have their justification, at last,
to cower without judgement.
It’s okay! You can fear others now,

and get the back pat by human
authorities, the white coats running
a panic game, a lucrative one,

pharmaceutical companies reaping
the harvest of your fear, assuring
you this is… Health.

***

Turn around.  Wake up.  Open up
your eyes and define life! Your way,
Health is extremely personal so

state your belief, seek your path—

But please stay in your lane, I’ve
got my own here!  Do you know
my medical past?  Do you know
the intimate details of what I’ve
been through?

If not, kindly care for yourself, wear
a mask, don’t wear a mask—your body is
yours, some say from parents, from
higher powers, creators, nature
or whatever! It’s yours!

Fear is universally unhealthy.  And
fear precedes anger, a state politics
finds itself in, when the other guy or
girl doesn’t do what we want them to do.

Live and let live, remember?  Adhere
to a glorious moral code, one from
books or old wisdom… but something.

Grab onto good principles to avoid
judgment of others, live your life
fear-free, honor Creation underneath
civilization,

Underneath Covid-19.

One Man

04 Thursday Nov 2021

Posted by Bill Watkins in Homeless, Poem, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Christian, Christianity, Gospel, Gospels, Homeless, Homelessness, Humanity, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry

Homeless1

He had lost half his nose,
the right side of his face
marred by the streets.

His eye on that side
bloodshot.  Barely here,
laid out across a driveway—

Concrete and asphalt his
best friends, along with
the devil alcohol…

Near naked, shoeless,
writhing on the ground for
traffic to finish off,

I asked him if he needed
help… He groggily said “yes,”
I called 911, waited, then

watched as paramedics
kindly carted him away for
a short or final rest, who

can say?  He was not really
another man, he was me.

He was a man, like me.  He
could have been me, a
long-lost brother.

He bled red like me, a thin
line of it glowing where his
nose used to be whole.

A red eye like mine, skin
and sweat… Was he ever in
a sandbox at school?

Branded homeless by the suits,
a “problem” by them and
others, when really…

He’s just a man like you
with a disease.  One man,
barely breathing, hoping

for something good, some
moment of light before
the end to signify forever.

We are here, equal.  None
better than another.  This
man was me.  You…

Our job to love him as
we love ourselves, remember?

The Failure of Democracy

03 Wednesday Nov 2021

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bible, Democracy, Geocracy, God, Great Spirit, Guns, Joy, Lies, Love, Native America, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Politics, Spirituality, Truth, USA

Democracy1

It’s not so bad.

The realization that the second
major people-governing concept
has failed…

First there was Higher Power, gods
invoked so close to us on
earth that they came to our
dreams, spoke and guided us.

Folks like those under the prophet
Samuel kicked that theocracy out
years ago, thought kings might
be a better way, for “Hey—

all the other nations was doin’ it!”
The Hebrew god warned kings might
be corrupt, finally that on the day
we complained, he wouldn’t hear.

So the Greeks rose up like a Narcissus
flower, rejected single male power,
and invented dēmokratia, democracy –
Long live people-rule, at last!

The Romans liked it, spread it
around by force, liked Jesus—spread
him around by force, combined the two
to steal land in the New World,

a Dutch mapmaker calling it all…
America.  The natives still had their
higher powers, excited by the earth
and their place under a Great Spirit.

But we had our democracy, bible, and
most powerful of all, it would seem,
gun powder.  An Asian invention, fireworks
English and other Euros used to kill.

So people-rule it was and has been,
although I’ve never seen people rule
during an earthquake, forest fire
or hurricane.

“It’s flooding, you say? Well, let’s
hold a vote,” never much swayed
the elements, but still we claim that
“people-power is best.”

Until it isn’t.  Until two parties argue
and argue and do nothing.  Until you
realize there is no power in hallways,
marble and human art, that the

natives may have had it more right
than wrong, the waterfalls, valleys,
rivers and mountains of their
higher powers holding joy and sway.

I used to talk and write of Geocracy,
God, Earth and People-rule, but
know the word in front offends, so
onward I look, want to join?

People don’t always rule, so let’s
move on… There’s something better
at the end of this tunnel, so keep
digging toward the light.

Democracy has died because it was
never in the first place right.

The combination of people, honoring
the earth and invoking a higher power
seeming to this poet the truth,
a way to it, giving blindness sight.

Tlanextili

12 Monday Jul 2021

Posted by Bill Watkins in Bilingual, Indigenous, Mexico, Nahuatl, Poem, Poema, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amor, Earth, Esperanza, Europe, Hope, Indigenous, Invasion, Joy, Love, Mexico, Nahuatl, Native, Naturaleza, Nature, Paz, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality, Theft, Tierra, Truth

beauty6

Great Spirit, Holy Creator hear me.
We need to be awake—

The sun of civilization is setting,
hopefully passing over before
the mountain cracks.

Europe keeps coming for its
concrete—

Broken rocks on the dock of
fallen natural ports, civilization
stealing, dignified.

Tlanextili, Earth!  I’ve been asleep!
Hear me, I’m awake!

Rome planted unholy plants over
the green earth, as time separated
us from the rocks—

Sun! Shine, Tlanextili!  Hope, eternally
falling in natural wonders;

Hope – that cascade of truth in
red orbits we read next to golden
lines to time Thou growest!

Tlanextili, Sun!  Tlanextili to the
old gods that harmed no one.

Peace be to the reigning powers
that gobble up peace, calling it
politics—even medicine…

Tlanextili, me!  Sunshine next
to rain still a rainbow!

Tlanextili, Earth!  We can return to
the goodness before the gun. We
can return to honor—

Truth springs eternal down the lines
that care, children always there.

Conmueva mi mentalidad, Spirit!  The
Earth where there are no words…

Una mejor sociedad… sin lenguaje,
sin fronteras menos ellas creadas
en el núcleo de la tierra—

Tlanextili, mente.
Tlanextili, libertad!

Tlanextili, primera gente—
Tlanextili, Esperanza!

The Joy We Give

06 Sunday Dec 2020

Posted by Bill Watkins in Christmas, Poem, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Christmas, Joy, Love, Poem, Poetry, Spirit, Today

Christmas1

It’s tempting to neglect that
Rainbows tower over rain,
but we look down at times instead
of up, seeing only our pain.

Christmas comes around, a spirited
winter fiesta of lights and sound
to celebrate Solstice and Jesus,
cold weather games and the Word.

Good words are just that whether you
call yourself this or that, no matter
your religion or creed.  The joy we
give is found within, the snow

glistening in times forgotten, trying
in Turtle Island to make a go—
Calling it America, raising guns
and glasses against the darkness.

But it comes anyway; there is no
Daylight Savings that can alter
Nature; humanity asking you to
be a part of the sunshine that is…

Eternal life.  We are petty in our
self-pity, are wise to pound that water
back instead of flammable things,
Ask a Higher Power for help this

Christmas, and see the help as it
rains.  Back to the rainbow, a red
and green song by Nat King Cole,
our ancestors blending with theirs.

Imagine if we only asked the Indians
instead of taking.  Never take a step
in hurry or haste, recall our place,
ask before doing and the humble rock

of joy is ours to roll… Toward the
New Year, not “New York” and Times
Square, because really: There was nothing
wrong with the old York and no real

justification for taking Native American
land away, renaming it in European
images.  Crosses can be idols, too,
suffocating the natural water falls,

Rivers and Trees, whose songs will
continue to be sung forever.  I will
not die if in the face of pain I yelled out
joy; I cannot suffer long, if I take

the hand of help, only there if I call.
The joy we give, at Christmas or any
other day… is the eternal salvation
we miss staring at the bottle.

Merry Christmas, 2020, the best year
of my life.  Be not a slave to fear and
what has been, for the hope of all
mankind on earth for all times, let’s say:

Is not in a man, a woman, a report from
the news, a new road built or another
traffic jam.  All of our hope rests on one
single, solitary thing…

Today.

Deja la Belleza

20 Thursday Aug 2020

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

beauty, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poema, Poetry, Spiritual

Beauty1

Deja entrar, la belleza
en mi que encuentro en ti.

Deja meter, la luz de Dios
que brilla debajo del dolor—

el pasado como estrella
tirada por cielo tuyo,

La respuesta adentro, como
saben niños al punto

de amanecer, cada momento
otro chance a dejar…

Tu misma un sueño, el
arcoíris no tentando adelante

porque sabemos que hay
mas por el otro lado…

Un pasto mas verde porque
tu estas.

Brilla mas que nosotros, brilla
en tu manera, en la forma

que quiere el Creador, tu creada
por perfección, la expresión,

la alegría de la vida, bailando
con mariachis y la niña siempre

necesitando cariño, el mejor
amor empezando y terminando

adentro de ti.

The Spunk of Life

24 Friday Jan 2020

Posted by Bill Watkins in Creation, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Universe

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Big Bang, Creation, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Science

Spunk1

Before the big bang, there was something…
Bodies, molecules touching, who or what
created them we do not know but are
free to name, dream and tell.

To understand creation, one must try to
understand him or herself.  What makes you
tick, revolve, move, gravitate, love, burn
with anger, repulse, reject, accept?

That’s the spunk of life—the calm becoming
storm, mountains from molehills fight.
Call it God, the remover to remove, the
Wind today from Earth’s first blast.

Moving, silent, loud, crashing and falling,
supported by each other, the elements in
us like Lao Tzu said, there is no separation!
The mist in us, fog and rocks stray parts—

What is in your heart?  I call it the spunk
of life, the garnered fire and energy needed
to rise, penetrating what we can to express
some inner thanks at dance’s invitation.

Here one moment, a flash of idea and spirit
the next, we call it names like “God” or
good orderly direction, because we want
someone to whom to address our gift.

Imagine the false beginning that never was,
and a scientist tearing out her hair trying
to prove something.  The only certainty is
not explained in words.  Things are.

Why are they?  And, again, who or what first
put them there?  We did, of course, the people
and beings that name things, we of the same
stuff that was here at the start—

I wasn’t fully there, I’ll admit, so guess at patterns
in the sky and mind that tell me birth is as
birth was, an explosion, a rubbing and exciting
of parts creating heat and light…

The spunk of life.

My Last Goal

11 Saturday Jan 2020

Posted by Bill Watkins in Fútbol, Football, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Soccer, Sports

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fútbol, Football, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Soccer

Soccer2

My first goal was for the wrong team,
practice at San Marino High School,
Mini Titans I was five years old.

I dribbled the length of the field,
scored it beautifully…

That team was undefeated, I never
scored one in uniform during league
play, got close, started to score
the next year…

Fourth grade was the last AYSO
season for me, made All-Stars,
was a big deal…

Gave it up, moved on, then in
the middle of college between
sophomore and junior year a
friend calls me and says, “Let’s
go to South America!”

So I went, and it was great, and
among other things I fell in love
with soccer. Before that I liked
it, but Argentina… It’s a feeling I
still can’t stop, as I root for
Leicester City Football Club
on my radio link every week.

I got back from Argentina and
started juggling volleyballs in
volleyball practice, my coach
eyeing me a little funny.

I joined a club soccer team in
Santa Barbara, looked at the huge
mountain I wanted to climb,
which was becoming a great player,
and I started to climb…

I left the team, the coach not
playing me enough, kept training,
went to every World Cup game
played at the Rose Bowl in 1994,
played with friends, the passion!

I scored a good one at the Alumni
game, something some still talk
about, for me a midterm exam…

Then I overdosed on drugs, got
depressed, left everything and
everyone, lived in hospitals, let the
ball drop.  Was hopeless!

(It’s called alcoholism)

I got sober, found the ball again,
started to play, found a team fifteen
years after I had last played.

Guess how long it took me to get
into real competitive game shape?

It took 365 days to get into real
football shape, to that place where
I wasn’t thinking about fitness, just
goals and winning games.

***

The coach looked at me one day,
said, “Bill we need you to score some
goals.”  That’s what I was waiting for,
as I didn’t really think they cared until
then. He was of course younger than
me, my whole team with players younger
than me, I was thirty-nine on my last
competitive leg.

Truth is I had retired twice already,
then I’d keep coming back when I
was shopping in the market and
emotion would come, tears that
meant I was not done yet!

“Okay,” I told my young coach,
and next game was on a good synthetic
field in South Central L.A., facing
a good league team with supposedly
one of the better goalies.

A couple white guys on their side,
goalie included, my team all Latino
and me, the lone white dude, playing
Striker, hungry for my first goal
on the team, green lit by the coach
to get it done.

The action was hot from the start,
we pressed, me and my striking
mate, criss-crossing, zig-zagging,
switching play, press, press.

Not long before we broke through,
three on two, I’m in front of the
touted keeper, too close, blast—
he blocks it and tackles me,

Rebound… my mate taps it in
for goal number one, 1-0!

Goalie’s cleat is an inch from me
and he looks disappointed he
didn’t connect.

Our team is pumped in our
Spain colors, an early lead—
almost too early for some of them,
who knew we needed the win to
secure a spot in the Playoffs.

From the back I heard, “It’s zero-
zero!”  I said, “What?  The goal didn’t
count?” And they said, “No!  Play
like it’s zero-zero!”

They were wise for their age, those
kids, and I nodded, kept our press
going to try to get another…

Switch, switch, I criss-crossed from
side to side more than my striking mate
preferred, but the energy was there,
and it felt right to seek space wherever
it called…

Coming from left to right, I tracked
a long ball into the center of the pitch,
ten yards outside the opponent’s
eighteen yard box.  It bounced a couple
times, and by the time I got to it,
their large center back had pushed up
to make a play on it, along with another
defender, one of those times you figured
less is more, let’s do something quick
before the big man has time to show
me just how big he is…

It’s near 50-50, the ball just about
equally between me and the big back,
close enough to him that he starts to
dive in—

Instinct and speed, I got to it first,
chopped the ball out of the scrum
between or by the big defender’s legs
and into space.

He dove, missed, I stayed on my feet,
caught up to the ball I served up to
myself, now just me and the keeper,
as the center back was out of the play.

Best keeper in the league, they said.
And me?  No goals for fifteen years,
finally in shape, just green lit by
a knowing coach,

I never moved my eyes from the lower
right corner of the goal, the ball at
good speed to be left alone as I jogged
at measured pace behind it.

The training’s all done, from San
Marino High School mistakes,
to an undefeated first season to
a spattering of goals, all-stars,
a long break leading to a South
American escape and falling in love.

Pinning the guy to his left, eyeing that
right corner like I was married to it…

I’m close enough now.

Pass it in, the left corner, goalie stuck,
2-0, my last ever goal, we won the
game 2-1,

I shouted afterward, my teammate telling
me I was blessed, and perhaps I was,
that was it.

My coach kicked me off the team a couple
months later for insubordination; I didn’t
let him yell at our team one day after
a hard fought draw 1-1 with a nine-player
team, yes nine on our eleven.  But they were
good, their coach in coat and tie, they
thought they’d show up and take care of us
with their nine…

We fought, it was tense, a great game!
Down 1-0, we fought back, scored the
equalizer, and were pressing for a second
and winner, had it been me I would have
climbed the fucking fence.

But we did not, and we ended in a draw,
the coach blasting us, saying he was
embarrassed.

I stood up and patted our team on the
back, wouldn’t let him berate us.

He called me that night, suggested I
find another team to play on, as we
had different ideas on how to compete.

I switched teams, played a bit more,
stood tall and walked away knowing I
had scored the goal I needed to score.

I had climbed that mountain I started
climbing in club soccer in the Central
Coast of Santa Barbara; I never played
professionally, tried to get a tryout with
the Galaxy in 1999, but they never called.

The goal was enough, on that South
Central synthetic field one day in
December 2011, my hands became fists,
pumping at my sides—

Celebrating life

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