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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Poetry

Words

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

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

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Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Poetry

Evolving spirit, I revolve the revolving
door revolutions salute when revolting;
turn back to my past with a key called
loneliness turned into twelve steps turned
into intimacy with one, two, three, until
lo, and behold:

I love all people in the world.

Nothing is possible—to do nothing better
than a thousand bad things—heck,
study the Tao Te Ching!

Evolve spirit, build a bridge… not of
bricks only but perhaps with words,
as well, sharp in spots, muddy!  Get
down into it with those you don’t
understand, open their book and
read their words!

Build a bridge, then reach into the pen
that sets down truth like cold the
‘fridge, giving God a run for money
is the wordless feeling streaming
from extremes called compromise
and peace of mind.

Build a bridge; the words can if
you let them, speak your truth when
the coast is clear—

and when it is not?

Retreat!  Pick a mountain spot, a dream,
a beach or any other sky that’s
pretty in pink.  Take off your dress, the
tie you were tempted to wear
because the others said it was what
was needed there…

Take it all off and jump into the pool
of love that is the true words spoken
in safety on the day of your awakening
of spirit.

I wish you truly well!

Even the folks I felt didn’t treat me so
swell!  We all did our best, even in the
late night mistakes of doing our worst.

The devil is a tempty little punk, but
love him too because without a
challenge like rain—

where would we ever find the rainbow
that is akin to overcoming our pain?

God grant us truth!  A safe room or
space in which to tell it; Courage to
speak the true words,

help us cast the safety of lies away
for good and forever.  Point us the
way toward a better earth, the return
of first peoples, first plants, a rebirth
of native culture—

the wisdom of studying all God’s things,
even that trail of ants.

Renew us in your waters; run the sauce
over our face, cool and calm—

each word a bridge now, each effort a
song to sing as we tidy up the nursery
of our ignorance; the past itself a broken
down palace of god-striving kings
who wallow until the ‘bow that Spring
will surely bring.

Poetry Workshop

07 Sunday Oct 2018

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

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Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Truth

I brought my poems; ears to
hear theirs.

I was so excited, grateful to have
a moment free of care…

Dance, poem!  Songs sung
singing praise like David, living
life sounding songs like David,
the phone rings like I did, God
and truth abound the blatant
sound of songs sung, singing
praise like David.

Dance, poem!  Freely made,
the words are for you, forced
through, woke up with you
after prayers answered they
ganged up and tackled you.
Higher powers than us are at
play, if good.

Be whatever, but let it all waver
in the up and down sometimes
thing, sometimes flavor, the dream
let it sizzle, this is something we
can savor.  Music claims to improve
us, words and I infused with rhythm
anyways, so why not?

Why not go that last step, grab
a guitar and go?

“Enough is as good as a feast,”
said Poppins before she left the
nursery.  Left for the park, Michael
and Jane convinced that cleaning
was fun, the games just begun,
words, haven’t you heard like the
wave of a wand, magic.

Toast from loaves from rocks
to roll, water from whine, it’s
now half past time to pack it up
and begin again, mid-flow, give
no more…

***

“No folks, there will be no poems
today.  We have on the schedule,
as you can plainly see:

A Poetry Workshop, with Dr. and
Mrs. XYZ, experts each, doing the
experting…”

The end of freedom.  Hope for the
day jolted.  Conforming itself the halt
on what I love, so I left.  Found my
rhythm again, know there are no
poetry experts but dreams and wind,
things we cannot catch

but put them down on paper anyway.

Three Words

28 Friday Sep 2018

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

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Tags

Courage, God, Heart, Joy, Love, Peace, Poetry, Recovery

When I was young, I heard
and saw a lot, listened—took
it in, used my senses to try
to be the best I could be.

Sort of a win before life began,
something the humble guard
as theirs to be, open-minded,
a sponge in the open sea—

God overhead, faith within
the soul, but this was before
the words crashed upon my
mind’s eager shore, yours too.

Mom was nice, but sometimes
I was passed on to other laps
and arms, thought they were fine,
growing up now I heard three

Words.  I heard them, but I did
not feel them or want to
repeat them; I needed more
evidence but in vain I searched!

It may have been Grace that
pursued me, Senator Klobuchar
on the Judiciary Committee—steady
truth, still not in my diet.

I nearly passed out, then teetered
on a jacuzzi ledge, smoked out
on pot, lit up with flammable
liquid in my veins—

I avoided the three words, the
feeling in them, maybe because
my super fun and amazing dad
never used them.

“I love you” was whined into the
wind by a loving, conflicted mom
who canned Dad on a dark night
of confusion, not long after Dad

gave me his last sip of bourbon
to drink, the same room reporting
“Divorce”—despite Jesus’ teaching
against its very existence.

God help us, was not yet prayed,
but off to college I went full of
love—but Backed Up, like a troubled
sink, I threw my guts up on the seat.

Anne Devereux was all I wanted,
tennis on the circuit—no one listened
we discriminated against children
I’m just another weak heartbeat.

God, help us was not prayed, because
the need not peaked, not yet at
bottom the alcoholic I’d become
sought answers elsewhere, namely

in grades at school, trying to be cool,
all a cover-up over love for Anne
and Mom, all a cover-up for the lies
I told myself to tell other lies that

I was not lying when I said I only
had a beer, when I had three, and for
me at 90 pounds that was quite a buzz,
a mini-suicide, love walking away

from me, the next girl Melanie, a JJ
in there, maybe a Marne, Allison in
Summer, all an avoidance of telling
the Wife of my Youth

“I Love you.”

Three words, hard to learn, harder
to say, so when my AA sponsor said
them to me in 1996 without needing
to hear them back from me,

I felt something I could not brush off,
it was unconditional love, something
he learned at home but more in AA.
Weeks later I said, What the hey?

And I started to say the words, three
of them to express the love I feel
for life and you.  Three words to
bring the love revolution out of

the sad alcoholic closet and into
the open, below the big bright blue;
God above, faith in our spirit, the
shine all around the moment we

clean the street off, tell the truth,
ask a higher power into the mix,
and tell Anne how sorry you are
you did not tell her how you felt.

Back then was back then, and
here we are living in the stew and
stink of the pain of past wrecks.
But we rise for another day, turn

wine back into water, study
even further than our teachers
suggest!  Be the best we can
possibly be, with or without a

big cross tatted on your chest.  To
believe in a big world and universe
and to play a small but impassioned
part is to live toward peace of mind.

To say “I love you” key to indeed
living truthfully and ably from the heart.

Back to Church

26 Wednesday Sep 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Church, God, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Religion, Truth

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Church, God, Joy, Love, Peace, Poetry, Truth

Church2

by Bill Watkins 9/26/2018

***

I was confirmed Catholic in a haze of “getting it done,” not quite hungover but certainly between hangovers.

My first memory of church was Dad’s legs, moving really fast.  “Come on, kids! We’re late!” and he sped-walked up the boulevard to church.  We followed, the rest of life pretty cool with lots of well-timed presents and stuff around to keep us entertained.

My first love went un-reported, as Proverbs 5:18 and Malachi’s 2:14’s Wife of your Youth was not much preached or cared for in our neck of the woods.  Alcohol was everywhere, something I now see as a false god, along with college and anything else that distracts us from the straight, narrow path to Heaven.

I had no relationship with God or any kind of Higher Power until I went to an alcohol and drug rehabilitation center, where my sister had checked herself in in January of 1995.  On February 7th of that year, in a small therapy group on the campus of the Betty Ford Center in Palm Desert, California:

I had a spiritual awakening.

It involved telling the truth.  A black social worker named Lee Harris asked me in that group if I had a girlfriend, after asking me why I was “excited” to be there.  Between those questions, he asked how my relationship was with my dad.  “Loving? Affectionate?”  I said “We hi-five and watch sports.”

So Lee asked if I had a girlfriend, and I looked left and right, saw a safe room—and admitted the truth to all there that I had Never had a girlfriend.  My big secret.  I had no intimacy in my life, no close friends.  I played sports.  I drank alcohol.  And I pretended to believe in God at church, something impossible to accomplish without telling the truth.

February 7th, 1995

The scales lifted, the eyes clear.

Honesty, finally the truth at
twenty-two given with a tear.

“I’ve never had a girlfriend”
coaxed when the moment was right,
I let down my guards to finally
see the light.

You can’t be helped ‘til you ask
for it.  You can’t ask ‘til safe,
I looked left and right before I
truth supplied and saw that it was all
right—I came out!!!

I was unhappy, even though I had
friends after friends coming to my
bar-b-que party.

I was empty even though the trophies
and plaques on walls increased
and filled—attempted to fill, this would
have to be enough!

Spiritual Awakening—LORD, have me!
Done hiding it was safe to bloom,
and now, no more garden parties,

I separate the happy with the gloom
and see the world in poems—

I did not ask for permission and leave
another world behind: self-doubt, beer,
hollering around death, we put up
our hands at fear.

Trapped no more at Betty Ford
the 7th of February a.d. ‘95
ready to turn the boat around…

Trapped no more you want more
and more so ditch tomorrow for today.

They criticize you and analyze you
as you smile and accept today

***

From Betty Ford, I went into the Al-Anon program, for family members and friends of problem drinkers.  Betty Ford had prescribed two meetings a week to all Family Program attendees like myself, but I’ll report here that I started out going about once every other week.

I limped into the meetings, learned about my perfectionism and people-pleasing, started to believe in a Higher Power—which at first was the unconditional love of my Al-Anon groups.

Later, my definition would expand, come back to the Bible, the Tao Te Ching, the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, and even the Native American Great Spirit.

My last conscious drink of alcohol was on March 6th, 2002. I now celebrate sixteen years of sobriety and growing health, after I almost died in two drug overdoses, 1999 and 2000. My drinking started on Dad’s lap at five—his last sip of bourbon on his lap.  It was then that I let the Devil into my life.

I was blacking out with friends on the substance by age thirteen.  Graduated Polytechnic School in Pasadena, California a full-blown alcoholic at age seventeen in 1990.  I did well in the classroom and sports field, headed to the false god college without God, graduated, then found my way to Betty Ford, chronicled above…

***

Recently, I came back to the Church.  My father passed away in December of last year; he used to attend mass every day, and I saw a vision of starting to go, to get out of the house, get started early and be of more service to other people and God.  I’m glad I have decided to do this, despite the many problems I see in the Church.

For instance, where did YHWH go in the New Testament?  LORD, all capitals?  Weird, we go down to “Lord” in the New Testament, and everybody nods along, as if nothing strange is afoot.  Many Christian churches call Jesus God, but I studied the Old Testament, saw an amazingly deep and convincing description of YHWH that would never accede to being watered down into anything else.

I love Jesus.  A best friend with words from God to be sure!  He teaches us to be as little children, truthful, and Loving!

A path to heaven is carved by the Word, and I love to study it and try to do what Jesus taught, along with obeying the ten commandments God gave to Moses for the Jews to follow.  So, therefore, I consider myself a Judeo-Christian, and think all true Christians are that, including Catholics.

You can’t master the New Testament without obeying the teachings of the Jewish Torah. But then there’s that lingering continuity error, regarding “LORD” being reduced to “Lord.”  By who?  Jesus?  His disciples?  The Greeks who wrote the gospels down on paper?

YHWH is the real deal, as a Native American would say about the Great Spirit, both reflecting true power and the Great Mystery.

YHWH

We speak of Jesus, forgetting the Father.
There was the Hebrew text, the Torah,
what Christians call the Old Testament.
In it there was a SACRED Name, no vowels,
all capitals, that WAS NOT TO BE UTTERED
OR USED IN ANY WAY IN VAIN.

Not casually dropped in a sentence,
but used in worship for specific prayers
and purpose.

YHWH.  Do not use it in vain.

In English, someone decided to write
this sacred name with a vowel, we must
forgive them: “LORD.” All capitals, though,
do not forget that, those that interchange
Jesus with God, “LORD” with Lord, the small
case “New Testament” version.

The Father is the Father, the son is the son.
Jesus came with God’s word not pointing at
himself, but Up, at his Dad.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,”
prayed and taught us to pray, did
Jesus.  Not “Our Jesus…”

YHWH.  Do not use it in vain.

Power, lightning ending your life
in an instant.  Giving, creating, the Creator
of All.
Do not forget the order… Do not forget
the Father.  Respect the Power.

***

The Great Spirit

***

Once upon a wordless time,
the beat and pulse of the universe
created a ball of fire that became
our earth.

People walked on it, when it was
less hot, battled big beasts for
control, then learned to get along
in different areas in different ways.

There were things all people had in
common; others so different that it
led to more battles and fighting,

and life?

It’s always a bit of a fight for peace,
for the good feelings that arise when
we stay quiet and let bad times
roll into good like thunder from
lightning, rainbows from the rain,
the waterfall cascading down as
a poem from the Great Spirit above.

The Great Spirit is the Native American
concept for God, higher power, a
supreme creator and director of all
things and beings.

Shhh.

Be quiet a while.

Listen, and if in a bad energy, find a good
one when you can.

Take a walk, and let your legs
guide you to the Peace that you need
to spark an idea.

Recall that it was a great spark that created
the earth, all of us humans starting
as the love between man and woman,
the universe the same.

“Something there is that doesn’t
love a wall,” said Robert Frost.

Something wants the wall to break,
if for no other reason to get humans
off the couch to with the Great Spirit
up and Co-Create.

Wait.

Do not always do your first thought’s
dream.  Wait, sometimes, for a second,
even a third before you decide with your
highest form of prayer or thinking.

Move your arms or dance as a sign
to the Earth and sky, and call things you
see names that make you feel a connection
to them.

I am a former Englishman, living in
America.

My native name is Naked Horse, as
in a wild horse without a saddle—
running free and guided only by love
and Truth.

If you, too, live here, maybe you want
to look out for a native spirit name to
call yourself.

Whatever you want, you may ask
for it.

The answer will come in your dreams,
if not while you are awake, so

listen well, and smile as you play
the game.

***

I could write another piece called “The Confession of a Polytheist,” my upbringing all over the place, never centering on God.  “School, Sports, College, Girls, There, Here, no there!”  Anywhere but humble at the feet of one, unifying power.

The best sermon I ever heard our pastor give was about putting God in the center of your life.  There are good elements to the Roman Catholic Church, it does get me out of the house, socializing and mixing with people.  The singing and music can be pleasing—not just to us, but to God, as David showed us…

Church is a thing, like school, like any other place, a passion, a hobby or interest.  If one wants to be spiritual and do the will of God, the work is private, the prayer best done between you and God.  Jesus warned against public prayer, and promoted private moments between you and God—public prayer being rewarded with a slap on the back, private prayer rewarded by God Him or Herself in private.

Humility—knowing our place—will bring us all to oneness and Peace.  The rough places will be made smooth, evolution works, but no good thing thrives without honesty.  I plan to continue attending mass, trying to be of service where the Gospel is spoken, songs sung to please the LORD.  I wrote this piece to tell the truth and inspire truth, knowing how powerless I am over so many things.  Admitting that, we come to believe in a Power greater than us, see the glory in turning our will and lives over to that power.

May no person, place or thing get in the way of that Power, of our dedication to trying to know God’s will and carry it out.  No doctor’s diagnosis, college, or anything not clearly God.  Beware false gods; they are everywhere, tempting anyone not rooted and committed to the One.

The Heartbeat

24 Friday Aug 2018

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

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Choices, God, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry

Taking off, it’s your best chance,
the first romance never topped
as long as you live, so if you’re
lucky to be young and reading this:

Tell her you love her now, but pray
first!  Courage not from a bottle
of flammable liquid but from a
dependable power you can’t see

but know it’s there, the things you
don’t know mounting high as a
cherry mountain, a dreamy plain
fair and true, humility is not a bad

thing, it’s knowing what we can and
cannot do.  The Truth.  Enough to spark
a revolution, tell her you love her!
Tell her now!  Stay with her, the Wife

of your Youth, never leave her!  Give
all you can to God and life, one
day at a time was not a lie, be like
Henry said a Hero in the Strife!

Gosh, it could have all been nice.
But could it still be?  Can this last dance
make up for the time I ignored my
feelings, stuck in a hole of not

knowing?  Of not understanding, nor
inherently having the necessary things
you need to Love?

Freud was occasionally right; not about
member envy, but I liked the Id, ego
and superego, nice words—kind of pretty.

And about Alcoholism?

Could have been a picture or poem
about me, he said that alcoholics cannot
express…

Love.

Kind of being dishonest to your own
heartbeat, you see her, but look around
at parents who fight or call themselves
“divorced.”  You freeze, have not a friend

to help, and you freeze, because you
loved your dad but kept it secret from
Mom because the dragon is all around
us, and alcohol feeds its fire.

You want heaven or even just some
peace of mind, give up bull, make
a schedule for today, believe in a
God that works for you, and learn the

Law, starting with 10 good commands,
Native American final stands, Tao Te Ching
yin and yangs, no more Big Bangs, take
it slow and easy—blessed are the meek

and poor.  If you have nothing, seem abused
at every turn, turn the other cheek, survive
the chaos and torture for the years like
John McCain in jail, come out and shine.

We are a race that throws money and
accolades at survivors of pain, we do it
all the time.

Rainbows to rain, the flip of the coin,
smile while you have a beat, better the
ball of the last play…

And dance.

In Love

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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

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God, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry

It’s better to go with it, don’t
question the smile when pure, across
the room or arena, across the trail
she’ll let you know whether she
fully knows it or not,

whether you want to settle down,
marry and have children or not.

You’re “got” when she smiles, the smile
pure and in love.

In love with life, with her walk, and
then you wind up on the path, and it
seems to please her, too.

So you let her in, wait for the right
song to dance or take a chance
on a building melody, nothing blessed

without asking.

Ask a power greater than yourself for
help and guidance or get tricked into
thinking this love with a woman is
enough.

Humans are fallible animals, full of
goodness, love and dreams, but also
of selfishness, fears and anger turning
to hate more than you’d like it seems.

We cannot control much, so let that
smile happen, take it in;

enjoy the loving moment before the
earth stops, a new life starts, before
some other kind of storm yesterday
ended suddenly appears and begins.

In love is part of a sixteen hour day,
the other eight for rest, take it in;

enjoy the loving moment before the
earth stops, a new life starts, before
some other kind of storm yesterday
ended suddenly appears and begins.

Word Slap

20 Monday Aug 2018

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

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God, Joy, Love, Peace, Poetry, Religion, Spirituality

True is as true was, not in words
until blessed—before that?

You must ask.

The ear must hear earth, listen and
touch the dirt with hands and feet,
feel the thunder, be a part of the
sound, the waves, the one heartbeat.

“God” is for you to define, life for
you to sort, master or discard, our
choices abound, so pray first.

I don’t care what you pray to, though
when I got sober I started to care about
most things.

Words, shmerds, be happy, and choose
a god or Higher Power that inspires
you to great days!

Forty-six years has provided me a lot
of evidence that some sort of code
or adherence to spiritual principles
helps one enjoy, live and give toward
great days!

What is life, but a day?  Make it great,
the key admitting we can’t do that
alone, that supplication does work.

Ask and ye shall receive was said by
a wise teacher, referring to the glory
of prayer, the same one that said
that you can move mountains with
true belief and dedication to your
faith.

Let go.

Listen to the reason, the gift given;
there is a fairness in the honest
step, look both ways and consider
before taking it.

The Crack

18 Saturday Aug 2018

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

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Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Sex, Sexy

The beginning is the end, the
behind in front until all we have
in our mind is a poke in the butt.

It doesn’t matter, the skin and
prose before God, life and heaven
knows the fantasy can be better

than the real thing, g-strings,
blocking out all but a perfectly
composed rear, we all pause to

take in the glory of that which
got us here.  We can rise above
the instinct to love, but would we

ever want to submerge in anything
not on the verge, the creative urge,
the song called death that life needs

to truly purge, the end the beginning
as covered, take it off, show me the
thing I know but forget, the thing that

ties me in knots, dictates movement
and makes you wet, slippery to get,
sunshine in the crack like a jungle

for cat on cat, wild that, this on
and off punch through the page victory
of clouds over rain, smiling again

like a batman punch, “Wow” and
“Zam” in quotes, seventies colors and
sixties ‘do’s, eighties synthesizers and

fu manchu’s, underage drinking
bar-b-ques, nothing new, drinking
a flammable liquid, calling it “what

others do?”  We come back, though,
we come back to the darkest place,
the beginning, the inspiration for songs,

dreams and late night phone calls,
as God the creator created, we come back
to that which keeps us creating, curling

and whirling in a never-ending story of
humans populating a moon of the sun
called earth, we come back to the crack.

I love it.

Life

17 Friday Aug 2018

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

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Tags

God, Joy, Life, Love, Peace, Poetry

It hits you all at once, don’t be late.
Study, give what you can, never forget
to smell the flower, love the first
girl God gives you to love.  Tell her
how you feel today, if rejected or
hurt—take it to the grave, or, better
yet:

Pray.

Powerless.  Wordless.  Heaven an open
gate to the ones who try hard, Peace
of mind for the astute.

We are nothing until the moment calls
our name; step up.

Love her forever: the first girl, remember
her?  Don’t look on, look for more, she’s
enough and enough is as Mary Poppins
proposed, “as good as a feast.”

Higher Powers are good; supplicate to one
now, call it, him, her what you will, just
know humbly that you are not It.

Love the first girl, did I say?

Am I talking to the boy or his beloved,
is this reaching you today?

Love the first one, and never mind the
doubters and Puritanical wind that lies,
says you gotta have X, Y, Z before love.

You gotta be such and such Age before
you love?  Before you vote?  Before you
matter?

How Puritan American of you to fall
for the lie that children are second to
adults.  True the Native American life
touted the elder, but Jesus rightly came
along, pointed to the younger.

Solomon and Malachi talking of “Wives
of your youth,” while the priest
masturbates alone or with the altar boy,
bringing us full circle to our needs and
wants.

Follow your heart.

Love the first girl; the first one.  For me
her name was Anne, and I did not properly
respond.

My favorite time and person, to see her
meaning so much, but was I bedeviled
having already had alcohol on Dad’s lap?

Bedeviled!

Liquid courage?

C2H5OH, ethyl not Lucy I’m home the
day I decide Not to drink a flammable
liquid, never mind what Jesus said.

The Commandments talk of One God, not
many:

like College, what a joke!

American Politics, take another toke!  Or
think on Samuel’s curse, the thought when
Jews rolled with God as their direct king!

Aborigine the same thing!  Natives with their
life’s circle, the elders, wise as children
defending their culture under, over and around
the pollution of Columbus’ own masturbation,
the lies mounting with God climbing, calling
himself “Naked Horse” because he or she
will not be shackled.

African people hurting themselves, feeding the
insanity by handing over their brother to
the white master.

Forty acres and a mule similar to “Blacks
for Trump,” there are plenty of things
to say to fulfill the curse.  Samuel looking
down with me, rooting for you all to do
what this poet did:

Declare God king again, ignore politics at
a point, beat my chest and consider the
brave warrior inside me because I, too,
am native American.

God help us to remember our walk
barefooted on the ground, stars above,
the European obsession with buildings,
noise, weapons and mankind.

We share this land with little things, big,
and in between, totally lonely unless
we see we were all painted with the same
brush, don’t make a fuss, Heart yours, LORD,

the Hebrew walk in and out of the Egyptian
jungle of chains and pain, God the good
orderly direction like the rainbow after
rain, the song of the hour sung and won
because someone stepped up to the computer
at the right time, allowed God to speak through
a poem and set Life down for the next
generation, this one lost to the police
helicopter and shooting for the torso, calling
it defense.

The second amendment a perversion while
the sixth commandment still says “Yes.”

No.  Don’t kill.  Not anyone.  Not ever.

***
Life the dream we can be as the road
less travelled perhaps in yellow gold covered
with devil’s asphalt send the chosen (you
can also choose) slowly but surely to
heaven.

Those killing, hurting or acting out that which
is acted out without parents or guides:

Forgive them, hold them, and get them on
the path before you forget your role to
love the first woman God gives you forever.

The Bad Gardener

19 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Robert Frost

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Homage, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Robert Frost, Truth

Robert Frost was a bad farmer.

I don’t think he made a dime,
couldn’t master that which
others could grow and sell
time after time after time.

But every effort led him outside,
and once there, he could observe
what would become words;

Poetry danced in a way no one
had before seen, a truth so
hard and cold, soft and strong,
every letter springing like shaved
weeds, the song of wildflowers
killing wheat.

Robert Frost was a bad farmer;

me?  I’m kind of a failed gardener,
a shoddy planter of plants
and flowers probably not best
for my soil because I failed
to study.

Worse yet, I lack the talent some
have, the desire to make things
grow other than thoughts and
feelings through words on paper,
sometimes rhyming!

Me and Frost are bummers, but
I dream to make those lemons
yield lemonade, his nine year
dance in wind not a full-on
charade!

I try my best out there every day,
after a morning of writing, I
set out to chop around, plant
and dig, water and spray.

Sometimes things die, others live
with an occasional “strive,” but
then I come inside, write it all
down, God giving us all not a billion
talents, more like one or two,

making everything all right!

I play golf like a poet; I garden
like a total writer, and have learned
to accept it.

I am pretty bad, but water to
whine, I reverse the fog that
clutters my mind, the dance in
soil just a ruse that produces
an occasional flower, endless
higher power,

and inspiring winds that turn
poems from springing weeds,
slithering snails, the dodging
lizard, jumping into an apple
tree now killed.

I did not see through the success
of the tomato at last; but in
watching it strive, doing my best
to water it daily, I found
reasons to sit down, plant some
words—

a skill not fully mine but God’s
ship to blast.

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