Tag Archives: Poem

Earth for Christ?

14 Thursday Nov 2019

Posted by in Catholic Church, Conquest, Imperialism, Mexico, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spain

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Guanajuato Flores

Christ in books, the gospel
doth speake, the message of
peace and love, of what
could we peasants on Earth
argue?

Must we abandon the Earth,
customs of thousands of
years, to follow Spain into
perfect quest for perfect
biblical perfection?

What sort of inquisition is
this?  Must we abandon our
gods for yours?  Couldn’t
we each of us live and let
live?

Spain came to Mexico and threw
it down, but the mix converted
some Spanish to the spirit
you see in ballet folklórico
and Mariachi music.

The hills teem with peasant life
that gives the smile of purity
to the modern Spanish streets
of San Miguel.

The mix works, and Mexico is
of such…

In the North, the English drove
a hard, secular line between
them and religion, then brought
that set of lines to Europe’s
“New World,” usurping Christ
when convenient, dividing,
removing and killing brown
people with different customs
called diabolical and heathen
to garner justification.

Sins committed four hundred
years ago are still sins, and if
un-amended it’s never too
late to apologize and restore
love and sanity, give land
back where stolen.

The Greatest Democracy in the World

10 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by in America, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, USA

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USA Rotting3

They pitched me a lie in school
and on screen that we were
a great country based on our
president, government and
election-based “democracy.”

That was before I started
actually studying facts.  Native
Americans were not a part
of the 1776 British experiment,
and usurping colonists usurped.

There is a great country the
farcical, violent, usurping USA
doth claim, beautiful lands,
all free to roam until
the Europeans came to conquer.

People-rule is always silly,
I mean who of us rules during
a hurricane, forest fire or
earthquake?  No government
is valid if based on just humans!

Geocracy would serve better,
God, Earth and People-rule—
call it a merging of cultures
and ideas.  The U.S. Constitution
is a dry, secular mess for the rich.

The Iroquois Confederacy finally
found paper and ink after years
of oral records, and the great
difference between it and the
British rebel one is Great Spirit—

or, if you will, Higher Power
recognition.  Their meetings
asked for blessings from
Nature and Earth—from the Great
Creator called Great Spirit.

Humility is good, a slow-moving
fact above Mexico and below
Canada.  Vikings and English
conquerors, inspired by Roman
lust for foreign land, plague us.

That hotbed of invasion for thousands
of years in Europe created quite
a scary arsenal of horrible, loud,
destructive weapons and forces
to kill other human beings.

As Lao Tzu pointed out, we
cannot change the world, but
in telling the truth about it,
we make the good Dickensian,
Mrs. Chickian effort.

Imagine if Wyatt Earp let the
gangs run towns, or if a sober
writer let the descendants
of violent land theft call the USA
the greatest democracy in the world.

It is not, nor should it be.
There is a Higher Power in charge,
and that is still knowledge for
the wide path to grab while
the narrow hopes for heaven.

Talgarth Graves

10 Sunday Nov 2019

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

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

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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.

All Better

09 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by in Belief, Faith, Health, Inspiration, Inspirational, Joy, Love, Mental Health, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Positive Thinking, Positivism

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Health1

In the Mary Baker Eddy spirit,
rising in lines hopefully,
as an Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet:

I have overcome all illness,
God is here, and for you too—
We are all better, no complaints!

If we pause and doubt, cringe
and dip low in thoughts
We indeed worship Pain not joy,

We hoist “Cancer” up, some ailment
we raise until it becomes king.
Abolish that horrid monarch now;

Force abdication by your positivity;
the way you think is by God known,
So build today then, strong and sure

With Longfellow’s firm and ample base,
ponder not because you cannot
see Higher Power that it fails,

Or that some form of loving God
does not exist!  It’s in us, our healthy
loving thoughts!  So be with me

Pure in thought today, skip
rooms and offices to drop our
hundreds on white coats and insurance

gambles and gambits.  Walk the trail…

Believe.

Wingandacoa

09 Saturday Nov 2019

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

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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.

The Red Rose of Celaya

09 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by in Mexico, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Romance, San Miguel de Allende, Sports, Travel

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Red Rose3

Anthony was our leader,
other friends.

We set out on foot and by
bus to Celaya from San
Miguel de Allende, the
year 1995—the quest
to watch a female bullfighter
fight.

Cristina Sánchez, torera
Española, beautiful, strong
and proud.

Graceful, too—a show-woman,
showing up the men and
bulls alike,

her signature move to tire
the bull in a dance of
deception, then go to her
knees while ripping open her
vest to show the bull world
that she was a woman.

A woman in the man’s domain,
crossing over to show it could
be done.

***

I threw three red roses into
the ring that day.

The last one, my friend Mike
helped as Sancho Panza did
assist Don Quijote so dutifully:

We placed a simple business card
of mine that had my name, phone
number and address on it…
through the bottom of the rose,
poking a hole.

We jimmied the card up the stem,
and I threw the rose into the ring.

Cristina had picked up the other
two roses… fine.

With this third and final rose, she
bent, noticed the rose and
myself, the thrower—still
standing near ring’s edge,

and she did look at me and
smell the rose.

Her eyes smiled, and we parted
ways. She never called, but the
spirit knows what happened that
day.

And Anthony, who
just watched two crazy, romantic
young men act fools for love
shook his head.

His eyes did smile, too.

And we brought love and joy to
San Miguel and to Celaya that
day.

Que viva México.  Donde vive
fuerte que sé es adentro de
mi corazón, todavía aquí
palpitando, esperando su
llamada mientras bailo en
el Jardín con Los Mariachis
de Bonito Tecalitlán.

Guardo mi 200 pesos, y preparo
mi próxima rosa.

¡“Guadalajara,” por favor, Capitán!
¡Tengo 50 pesos, vamos a tocar
para Dios si Mismo!

Pero no, necesitan dinero los músicos
para vivir, entonces, paso mi gorra
allí al publico, y voy a ganar 200.

!Si, “Guadalajara” tocamos!  !Y La Negra
ya sigue!

Que viva México hoy y pa’ siempre.
Viva en este, mi sueño, mi poema,
mi rosa de hoy…

Es lo que recuerdo cuando recuerdo
Cristina Sánchez, torera Española,
La Rosa Roja de Celaya…

Oh, boy!!!!

The First You

03 Sunday Nov 2019

Posted by in Originality, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Children2

So you have trouble fitting
in sometimes, you look up
at Dad and Mom, what they
did and who they are or were,

and think there I am somewhere.
Do not be so deceived!  You
are neither with Mom or Dad,
represent neither one but a

Strange combination of them
never before you tried.  You

are in fact, the first You ever made,
so gather strength, listen to
the rain, the voice inside that
pushes us past the pain,

Rainbows await the patient
and the wet; games lost are won
the moment you reach across
and shake hands heartily.

God is the sunshine, or a fiction,
or the joy after a hard nap,
Dreams things that come when
we ask for help.

We cannot do this on the
path already chosen for you,
so break off and find the true—
the Truth that you are a

masterpiece, if you so believe.

To Peace

23 Wednesday Oct 2019

Posted by in Decisions, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Star Peace123

We live and decide, sometimes
decisions above us somehow,
making themselves as we powerlessly
inch around where others have
often gone before us.

We do the thing we dream or see,
but from where did the dream come?
Did it come from good or evil?  Man or
God?  Devil or angel?  Is the thing we
do good not just for now, but eternity?

Where do we want to be when we
give up the earthly fight becoming
Spirit—all the love, genes and things
we ever did in the air, our legacy?

Riding a motorcycle, throwing up
devil horns, playing it all loud,
drinking a flammable liquid, taking
a drug to alter our state, acts of
desperate high, don’t forget loose
sex that risks disease…

These are for our moment, not
forever, and get us by until
some lives do just that, they
“get by” and defer on big decisions
until “later.”

Sometimes later fails to arrive,
and we suddenly let a doctor decide.
We take the drug, do the thing told,
because the alternative is original
thought, which has less roadmaps,
we could get lost—

I’d rather die with this doctor I know
than the unknown curve in wild,
unfettered nature.

One finds strength in numbers,
looks around at dollars made drinking
“what he’s drinking,” doing what
they’re doing, add some job security
with your mayonnaise and you got
a pretty manageable sandwich…

But the soul… “Dust thou art to
dust returnest” was not spoken of
the free.  And we all are, so watch
your step because sometimes you
get just what you asked for, ma’am
and sirs.

That shiny car… guzzling gas and loud.
That bright new bike, gaining roads
at higher speeds, don’t crash, I lost
a friend that way.  A six-pack of beer,
so exciting when we skip studying
what’s in it, C2H5OH ethyl good
for rockets, but us?

You can dazzle in the short term or
deny your highs to live out a long,
meaningful, helpful life toward Peace.

If you want war, have it.  Be loud, live
fast and know the blaze of glory
is in the eye of beholders, absent you,
if you die young.

It comes back to the old wisdom about
honoring your parents.  If you
want a long, good life, honor those
people who brought you.

If you love your anger and self-pity
at your hard times so much, refuse
to forgive and believe in a power
greater than you, spit on your
parents’ advice and memory
because “they were bad,” you have
made a choice, own it and good bye.

Me, I’d rather sacrifice my passion
a bit, have and exude Peace instead of
playing around with this life dishonorably
and die.

Love Multiplier

02 Monday Sep 2019

Posted by in LAPD, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Police

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Yoda1

You want to spotlight the gangs
from your loud chopper above;
you want to wage a war to feel…

to feel… Something.  To feel safe,
to get paid; to find your situation,
your three square meals and a cot,

your off the boat and into uniform
guarantee of work.  The wide path
to destruction is so easy to acquire…

So, maybe say “No.”  Maybe flip
the gospels upside down, imagine
that which comforts you most—

Died and was not there.  Perhaps
we could benefit from the naked
walk in nature, trust higher powers

the natives in “America” call Great
Spirit, mother earth, peace of effort
exuding graves under white decoration

and advance.  We built churches and
cities on sacred grounds because we
did not do what the bible said to do.

We talk the big game, but then when
put to the test, we often fall through
the water Jesus walked, fish to net—

Because our faith is as strong as a
guppy against a hungry racoon,
abstinence to the drunk who forgot

to pray…

We could send love out to our
communities and get the peace
war officers claim to protect.

Or we can keep throwing up those
choppers, wage war with cops
and uniforms allowing fear to

fuel anger to fuel hatred so we
can continue to suffer.  Yoda
shakes his head.

Turn around, if the wrong path
you are on, young Luke or Leia…
Spread love not fear, ground

your horrible first instincts, wait,
listen, and only act if moved
by something truly good.