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Tag Archives: Poem

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

Orange Court

11 Saturday Jan 2020

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sports, Volleyball

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

AVP, Beach Volleyball, Joy, Love, Manhattan Beach, Memories, Mike Dodd, Orange Court, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Sports, Sports Poem, Tim Hovland, TVC, Volleyball

Orange Court Image1

I hope it’s Wednesday, ‘cause
then we could see the pro’s play.
Hov and Dodd coming down,
I’ve called some friends from Costa,
Torrance Volleyball Club yielding
fun in the sun, for me a trip across
downtown worth the traffic, this
is Orange Court.

The Beach is Manhattan, the view
always pretty, the picture… snap it
like the wrist on top of the ball,
another off the lip, the wave breaks,
sometimes clear enough we can
see a fish, swimming with the tide,
Rusty boards,

I’ve got a five ten in mind, dude like
a stick figure conjuring Reggae music
on Brett’s boombox, gathered under
Bobby’s umbrella and chair, waiting
for the pro’s to play, finding a court
for our game, maybe Dodd will set
some hitting lines—

This is Orange Court.

The eighties were fun, full of color
on the beach.  Fluorescent memories
to match the vibe heading for college
dreaming of aces and gold medals—
championships, maybe from right
there off Marine Avenue, make a line
down from 23rd—

This is Orange Court.  Hov’s court;
you want “on” it, pay the price, get
through the traffic, play like the fish
with the tide, snap one off the top
of the block, pick your Frohoff one
surfing the other carving cut shots,
waking up as the Pasadena over-
achiever challenges all-comers
to play their A game.

That’s all I ever had to show for
it, rated “A” in SoCal because I got
to the Finals of an A-rated Marine
Avenue event, Cooker from Costa
on the call, chased down an impossible
ball, picked it up, like Andy McGuire
at home against BYU,

“Billy Watkins from Pasadena” yells
the man, Tomy from Spain, we took
it very seriously our game, never forget
the 6-4 side switch with a grunt they
could hear on Highland, the grunt that
says we’re winning this match.  I took
my A on Marine,

On Orange Court.

No Mistakes Too Great

30 Monday Dec 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Amends, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Recovery

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Alcoholism, Amends, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery, Sobriety

Awareness is all; Truth paramount,
Words trying so hard, give them
a chance!

Where were you at the middle school
dance?  Were you trying to be cool?
The truth is…

We were all made perfectly, like a
Christian Scientist would say, things
are just right.

“Nothing useless is or low, each thing
in its place is best,” why anyone wrote
poems after

Longfellow is a mystery, to improve on
genius one needs to study history, admit
each feeling.

No matter how bad things got or whatever
mistake or crime one commits, there is
always a way…

A way back, forward, out in overcoming
the problem, give the body and mind
a chance.

I was blinded at the dance, the devil in
my life since I drank with Dad, his last
sip of bourbon,

then I had a first crush and never told her,
the devil happy because I was a liar.  Third
grade!

So when other crushes came down the pipe
in middle school, I was a master liar, looking
for what?

How do you improve on the first girl the
LORD gives you to love?

Haha!  You cannot!

You live a life of lies, until you admit the
truth in a 12-step meeting or somewhere
else safe.

Truth wounds all heals, sews them up,
heals all wounds, over time all mistakes
and sins!

It’s never too late to change, to make
amends, to live the true life where Truth
itself…

becomes your best friend.

She Won’t Be Home For Christmas

21 Saturday Dec 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Don Kingfisher Campbell, Joy, Love, Native, Native American, Peace, Pocahontas, Poem, Poetry, Watkins

Native15

-by Don Kingfisher Campbell
and Bill Watkins

As Matoax sailed away in the
Spring of 1616, she spent the day
packing her things and wondered
if she’d ever return to Wingandacoa,
a place the English called Virginia.
She’s on her way to another life,
but how can she ever forget her land,
her people, her father?
She cannot, still she goes on ahead…
She traveled to England, a world away
from home.  She makes a new life
as a new wife, but wonders if there can
ever be more than one…
She arrives to find a new world—
That’s what they say, but is it?
She knows her life has changed for good–
That’s what they say, but has it?
She can never return from this place,
The rivers and streams of her
home are her blood.
She walks down the streets searching,
London calling a clash of cultures
She sees someone who can help…
Is it the Great Spirit?  The great
Mother of her own land calling
her back?  She has found a way,
a path… A new way?  One Christmas
in England is enough;
She has received a gift for living.
Will she get one for dying?
She believes her destiny is history;
At Gravesend she was promised
Christmas at home.
She remembered all that she
experienced, before she died in the
Spring of 1617.  She became a legend
in song—
She won’t be home for Christmas.

Where God and Earth Meet

20 Friday Dec 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in God, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Bible, Creation, Evolution, God, Joy, Love, Mother Nature, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality

Mother Earth2

The bible was law, among
other things, code with rules
and goals set for students
and readers to follow for
spiritual fulfillment, and as
a guide to reach heaven.

Civilization needs law, people
packed in together, concrete
and asphalt beginning to take
us away from the Earth, nature
itself being our first and only
needed book to guide us…

The smile is within, the bloom
on the field, many plants in
limbo needing more sun or
more rain, the cycle of life all
around us—including paper
and ink, laws and rules fine…

God, good orderly direction,
higher powers, the Supreme
Mover of all things; it’s a
relationship we may have
with a simple ask, or a prayer.
Use a book or the tree to

help you overcome your fear.
What unifies is a proper guide,
what separates in negative vibe
from a lower power, as my AA
sponsor would say, powerful too—
Pick one, it’s up to you!

Thanks, Grandpa

13 Friday Dec 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Cycle of Life, Eternity, Life, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Soul

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Aging, Cycle of Life, Eternal Life, Inspirational, Inspire, Joy, Life, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spirit, Spirituality

Life Cycle1

What are the last words you
want to hear?

Thanks, Grandpa.

What is better than a doctor’s
room, full of drugs?

Thanks, Grandpa.

Letting go does not have to be
a horror or bad—

Thanks, Grandpa!

Or if you are just a dad, that’s
okay, too!

We live our lives honestly, and
our rewards, too, will be true.

Jump on board the cycle, the
pure life is ours one day at a
time; flush out fear with a higher
power, pray often, turn it over,

Love completely and without
guards, deny the fear that locks
us into someone else’s version
of life and be you.

The true life still goes to heaven,
work and wait for it, love it,
and never fear the body’s
expiration date not troubling in
any single way to the soaring soul.

Living free of fear is the goal

Vex Not

13 Friday Dec 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in Inspiration, Inspirational, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Belief, Coaching, Coping, Cycle of Life, Faith, Heaven, Innocence, Inspiration, Inspirational, Inspire, Jesus, Longfellow, Overcoming, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Positive, The Cycle, Upbeat, Youth

Freedom1

We smile heading up the hill—

Vex not!

Life is but a game of thrills—

Vex not!

Every ill and fear is false evidence
appearing real, go to the mountain
top and tell God how you feel—

Vex not!

For the grave, as Longfellow did say
is not life’s goal, ashes to ashes and
dust to dust cannot cloud nor dirty
the soul—

Vex not!

Climb up or down do work every
single day.

Work is force multiplied by distance,
don’t worry!

Physics and science meet with the
spirit too,

in a place both artists and scientists
equally call truth.

Call on major forces to align and
believe, honestly

it’s the youth we want in you, not
the jaded adult

so off we go another day today,
doing everything we can

to be as children to enter heaven,
quoting gospels,

Then native American chiefs are next,
wisdom flows like waterfalls, good
luck trying to catch one, like sand
through hands, each rock a boulder
of cells in the universe under a
microscope,

Searching we seek,
Finding we found,
Asking the key step
after admitting we
can never do it all
alone…

Vex not!

It’s not as late as you think…

Vex not!

Time is such a relative thing…

Peace is at the end if we live and
love now like a child.

Be about it, and I’ll be rooting
you on from the clouds…

Vex not!!!!!

Not on my watch.

Vex not!

How about a game of hopscotch?

Vex not, love today then strong
and sure, read Longfellow, with
a firm and ample base—now,
And ascending and secure, Henry
and Henrietta—

Shall tomorrow find its place;

Vex not, or do, it’s whatever makes
that smile in you, do nothing.
Do everything.  We have to give it
all away sometime, so why not
grow a tree!

Vex if you want to, go with the
flow of all you dream to, there’s
the cycle, once on we live forever,
a comfort to the vexing type,
Give up all to get everything
tonight.

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