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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

~ Words For You, Just Ask

Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Recovery

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.

Fear and Pride

27 Wednesday Nov 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

The Devil is a sneaky singer,
whispering song in sleep,
attacking the weak—he goes
in deep!

I was just five, when Dad gave
me alcohol to drink, aye for
sure a mistake but the Devil
did wink!

Narrow is this path to heaven,
wide toward hell, good luck
picking the right hole to inhabit.
Good luck!

Fear and Pride keeps us locked
into wrong way past right, past
when it’s time to come home,
tell the truth,

Pack it in for the night… Grease
is the word, high school dramas
and comedies being played again
and again,

Over and over until you figure it
out at last.  Our old errors are not
as they seem, in the past, but
infect now—

Unless we square up the Devil,
Call his bluff, tell him to “Get
Thee behind me,” as instructed
and win…

Honesty, humility, and willingness
to be penitent is the pride-busting
state that gets the girl, the life
eternally circling free of sin…

Nostalgia

18 Monday Nov 2019

Posted by Bill Watkins in 1984, Alcoholism, Healing, Nostalgia, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Recovery, Sobriety

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholism, Joy, Love, Nostalgia, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Recovery, Regret, The Past

Nostalgia1

Sometimes a wave
of emotion overwhelms,
regret mixed with memory
mixed with pain mixed
with extreme pleasure,
near uncomfortable but
inescapable as passing gas.

Truth shines as rainbows
after storms, but stuck in
clouds are chances lost
to time to do or say the
right thing.  I wish I could
go back and be a true soul
in place of the wet rag I was.

1984, English Beat becoming
General Public, the middle
school dance floor opening
up, everything ready to go
except me.  I’m half there,
half aware, half unsure and
in the end 100 percent alcoholic.

It’s not just about the drink,
it starts with not expressing love.
She was there, I loved her,
I never told her.  She was there,
I loved her and never told her,
it repeats over and over the
great sin of dishonest omission.

The pain, the year, that rain,
the rainbow after, the songs
the dances free of commission—
relationships half engaged like
marriage without consummation,
or love without children, songs
without rhythm beating funeral

marches to the grave like
Longfellow said.  Recovery
is being the “Hero in the strife”—
changing your life, watching you
and it grow away from the past
like survivors from the fire,
it tries to lick you to safety.

Ouch, don’t get hurt!
Nostalgia is a flash from the
past, a time when you faced
a world of opportunity and fun,
was not ready and can only
hope now that once begun
is half done, heal thyself—

Watch Mary Poppins and be
a child, this time the one
that tells the truth and falls
fully in love with the moment
in the dance that years ago
left you that taste of regret.
Now is all, for old age to forget.

The Poem Not Written

16 Saturday Nov 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

1983, Alcoholism, British, Dating, Depression, Dreams, English Beat, Galaxy, Harold Ramis, Health, Humor, James Bond, John Hughes, Joy, LAX, Love, Native American, No, Octopussy, Otsungna, Pasadena, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Recovery, Sobriety, Soccer, Stealing Land, War Games, Western Medicine, Wingandacoa, Writing, Yes

Poetry1

I had plenty to say about
British invaders “using
natives kindly” and coveting
their land before stealing
it amidst the chaos of
mutiny, rebellion, starvation,
and forced coups in a land
natives called Wingandacoa
but the British vainly called
“Virginia” after their queen.

I had even more to say about
living at LAX airport in a city
most call Los Angeles, but I
prefer the native name,
Otsungna, signifying “place
of the roses;” I lived there,
trying to raise 600 bucks to
catch a plane for London
because Sigi Schmid, the
L.A. Galaxy soccer coach,
never called me to give me
a tryout in 1999.  Instead of
being depressed about that,
I rode my bike to the airport
from Pasadena (Chippewa:
“crown of the valley”), parked
the bike, lost the bike for
twenty-four hours, figured it
was stolen, then it reappeared
magically where I had left it
at the front door to the international
terminal, un-scratched and
unscathed.  So I sold the bike to
a redcap for 250 dollars,
which is how much I needed
to buy my ticket finally,
after camping out at the airport
three days.

I would have written something
about living in psych wards, when
filled with self-doubt and un-
checked alcoholism—how I
literally checked myself in
once at an emergency room in
Pasadena with symptoms
of “Self-Doubt.”  That helped me
to realize that was crazy, and
I slowly began to believe not
that I was crazy, but that I was
alcoholic, and that if I just
refrained from drinking alcohol
or using drugs one day at a time,
all would be fine!  Even if I just
watched TV or a movie, made
that my whole day, it was okay,
and better than doing something
bad like putting mind-altering
substances in my body.

I would surely have tackled
Western Medicine, and how sick
it is.  I frankly think it has serious
health problems, along with
the insurance game littering
its offices, halls and examination
rooms—perhaps why they’re often
too cold with air conditioning that
makes you sicker than before
you left home.  The sicker you
are the better deal health
insurance is for you, so good
luck with that; the healthier
you are, you lose and the health
insurance companies win that
round, so what’s it going to be?
Remember War Games from 1983?
“The only winning move is not
to play…”  From that year I also
remember “Owner of a Lonely
Heart,” Octopussy, Never Say
Never Again—two Bond movies
in one year!  English Beat’s last
year together, Chevy Chase
in Vacation, Harold Ramis
directing the John Hughes script.
I had thirteen dollars to my
name that year and felt rich…

Last, I was going to write
something on an impromptu
date at the post office.  I ran
into Mrs. Right, I’m sure of it,
so why was she hollering outside
the name of some dude, sure
to be a husband or boyfriend?
Could it have been a friend or
brother, and I still have a chance?
No matter what, it was rather
an enchanted meeting, and
I hope to see her again.  Does
that mean if her other guy
sees this poem, he’ll come
after me, email me, threaten
me with violence, if I
don’t stay away from his girl?
It’s happened to me before,
because I try to be true to
my own feelings and let women
decide what they want to do,
and sometimes someone will
let you make moves on them
because they’re bored or
not thrilled with their current
guy, but there is a danger of
ticking someone off, so I’ve
resolved to at the sound of
“I have a boyfriend” staying
generally the heck away,
hoping for romance when the
coast is clear.

I would have written all that!

Turn into Pain

31 Thursday Jan 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery

peacejesus3

Be Quiet.

You may be the next Useful Idiot
God uses to spread joy through
pain; wake up asleep, go back
to bed again!

Shhh!

Eat cake for breakfast, if you can
get away with it, smile now
before the wind changes, bringing
Poppins, Toppins, love…

Then crash, the constant in life
of course being change, the wind’s
at it again!

Did you know, little boys, that your
body changes a lot?  When a teen,
you’ll hear that from lots of folk,
but beware a second change at
thirty!!!

What you thought was firm suddenly
doth sag, you can’t believe your luck,
the fate of getting old is not just
for those with white hair it starts
sooner, long after the thrill is
gone life traveling on said the
Cougar, do you know how to camp?

I love you, friends, and I tell you this:
Stop all motion to help a baby, child
or new flower stand.

Do not offend a young person, Jesus
warned us about God’s angels that
bear God’s face—imagine that,
that might be pain!!!

Turn into it now, learn how
to master it!  The moment is gold—
the moment you master life
and growing old,

by admitting its pain, accepting it,
sitting or standing with a Higher
Power and your cards in the game…

It’s not the fun you have but the
pain you endure serving others and
even that voice inside challenging you
that counts to fight, fight, fight.

God give us the courage to stand
up like a U.S. Marine on a dime,
forget ourselves a moment and
be a part of this great thing called

Life.

Billy’s War

31 Wednesday Oct 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Recovery

We shot our play guns, built forts
in sand—wide is the path to
destruction, narrow to heaven
maybe one in ten.

God forgive the dishonest step;
the careless dream un-whispered
in the vanity of perceived peace of
mind through wealth.

God forgive us as we forgive those
who come across us hard, no one
wanted to wrong it’s just the most
common of songs!

God forgive us!  The chase, the lack
of study, the cramming alcohol down
throats because it looked cool and
signified plenty.

God forgive us the blind walk into
cars, paving roads over native hearts,
concrete over natural falls and rivers,
putting our mark down…

down, down, until the Lower Power
drills into us, putting his mark on us.

God forgive us—we had to decide
to win to win, even if winning was losing
with honor, pick up your feet declare
Victory over Defeat!

God forgive us!!

Give before, impede us from judging,
from playing your part, keep us
enjoying in our lane—make it that
narrow path to heaven;

widen it out for others to follow,
the art to be inspired and in the glow
tell them what you see and know
if frozen pray and go.

God forgive us, the first step without
you nearly off a cliff or worse, we
started to think of you, God, the
Great Spirit, the Hebrew

YHWH, never in vain, keep a few
things sacred, make a study of study
and study hard—not because they
told you but because…

Because you see.  And in seeing, those
momentary glimpses.  Ha!  Pick up a pen
or the artist’s brush, the guitar sitar
stomp a drum out of paper,

Writing it down for the next group,
who, zombie-like, are tempted to
drive off the cliff as you were, having
been told lies.

The devil’s the devil because of his
apparent credibility, the sparkle in
the drink, the sales pitch too good
to be true—

but easy.

The Disease

26 Friday Oct 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Living with an Alcoholic, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Love, Peace, Recovery

We miss the pitch, seeing what
Dad or others did, so shiny and
apparently fun, a thought is brewed
and we didn’t know anything else
to do.

So drank the liquid.

***

It burned as it was supposed to
burn, hell’s fire tickling up from
below, the devil agrin with hopes
of diverting another soul from the
focus of heaven’s righteous run.

I think I may have been a Fred
Astaire, a triple-threat, whatever
God wanted me to be… hit that piano,
dance and sing

I’m Free, Mom, look at me!

***

All those things I do now, jokes to
tell, from rooms of Alcoholics
Anonymous and Al-Anon, twelve
step beats a native son to meditate
on things gone wrong—

strike the gong, shhhh, be the truth
when we speak it in the safety net
of change.

Serenity is a’coming, Al-Anon like
a spring dress, all a mess like the
duck beneath the water.

On top we quack and splash for
fun, knowing we can quit drinking
the flammable liquid now.

Alcoholism is quite a disease; listen
to me.

Stop and think.  Do not place anything
into your mouth without first
study.

The crux of malady is the confused
insanity of doing hurtful things;

Bill and Bob wrote another chapter
of the Sacred book, you’re reading
it today—men and women both
equal partners in language we
must improve,

Love to soothe,
and peace that rainbow after the rain
coming to the admitted sick
alcoholic like a beat its groove.

Alcoholism and UCSB

25 Thursday Oct 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Alcoholism, Education, Poetic Blog, UCSB

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Joy, Peace, Recovery, Truth

One Alum’s Story

UCSB Gaucho Alcoholism

—by Bill Watkins ‘94 

***

Hey Gauchos!

My name’s Bill.  I’m alcoholic; went to school there at UCSB from 1990-1994, had a good time, but should never have been given a degree.  In fact, I should not have been admitted to the school—and in no way should I ever have been given a high school diploma, qualifying me for any university, anywhere.

I started drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap at age five, his last sip of bourbon.  I started drinking the flammable, colorless, volatile, toxic C2H5OH with friends by age twelve, was blacking out on the substance by thirteen.  At that time, I was sub-100 pounds, and sub-five feet tall, a solid two years from puberty.

I was a young alcoholic, a routine law-breaker, liar, but achieved in key areas at a “college prep” in Pasadena, California that somehow impressed UCSB enough to become admitted in the Fall of 1990.  My high school wrongly granted me the diploma first, without knowing who I was—or if they knew, they did not care enough to confront and change my behavior.

If you are reading this and recognize any pattern, or think you may be a problem drinker, I’m sorry—but there is good help, if you are willing to ask for and get it. One needs a safe place to tell the truth in this life, and I hope there is a place at UCSB that is confidential, safe and effective to drop truth without being judged or punished in any way for the dropping.

I had a spiritual awakening at the Betty Ford Center in Palm Desert, California in 1995, a half a year out of college.  For me that meant I told the truth to a group of people for the first time.  My greatest secret that came out that day, was that I had never had a girlfriend.  I was twenty-two, nice looking, an achiever at sports and academics, but did not know how to say “I love you,” or express love honestly.

That is alcoholism, according to Sigmund Freud: a disease of those who cannot express love.  Well, don’t wait too long to turn around, if you have symptoms of alcoholism or drug addiction—if love and its expression is a challenge, or if you look to alcohol as “liquid courage” as I used to do.  In the end I always found in alcohol consumption not courage but belligerence, law breaking begot more law-breaking, carelessness more carelessness, and I’d always wake up feeling cruddy, never any closer to being a proper man, who was honest to the Wife of his Youth.

I threw in a biblical reference right there; see if you can look it up and avail yourselves to some of my poetry, if not included in this newspaper on http://www.travelingpoet.net (my little brain baby).  I’ve written and self-published forty books, love life today, and regret every single sip of disgusting, flammable alcohol.  I think it is not a product, but a lie; please study it before you put it in your mouth or down your throat.

https://www.amazon.com/Alcohol-Bad-You-Bill-Watkins/dp/1540572250

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

***

You Learn to Care

The silver spoon rusts, and caring
departs the farther we find ourselves
away from life.

Poverty is our oldest friend, it is the
state infants find themselves in—
need to need, day to day, all five
senses supercharged and alive,
You used to care!!

To get that back you have to go back,
or forward march if in April you
find winter breezes alerting you
to change for the better.

Bill Murray in his Groundhog Day
learned to care, unlearned his stance
learned on the outside looking in,
resentments formed early in childhood,
defenses raised against abuse.

Our best defenses become our worst
defects as they sit and fester, or worse
yet grow and mold over and over
the petri dish that is Time.

The dust settles for a moment in
hospitals, jail cells, homeless shelters
or repeated groundhog days…

It becomes clear we must change.  Not
to something new but to something old:

Back to our childhood selves, the infant
that with five senses cared!  Was alive
with every movement, curious,
hopeful, asking—honest.

We learned to care, and then the day
turns and we can start over, begin
to live the adult life with childhood
spirit—Congrats, if you see this

Three Words

28 Friday Sep 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

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.

Screwing Up

11 Tuesday Sep 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amends, Joy, Love, Peace, Recovery, Regret

Do we get a second chance?

Romance, a thing of the past,
growing up sagging parts at 30,
life is lived between five and twelve,
then shoots down the ladder of
never-never.

What if you drank alcohol at five years
old on Dad’s lap?

What if you fell in love with
a girl named Anne in Third Grade?

Then never told her until you were
in your middle twenties, a part of
a twelve step group that honored
truth, needed truth, and gave you
God for your troubles.

Love is a fifth of vodka in the face
of the ignorant.  We come out of Mom
not knowing a thing, perfect bliss
minus the hellacious rush of light
and reality felt the moment we
breathe.

“Let me back in!” is not an option
as you keep breathing, if healthy.

I stayed in the hospital for two weeks,
a blue baby—they helped me to
breathe, and what did they think
at home?

The devil is all around us, we live
on the dragon’s back, wide the path
to destruction—you cannot change any
of it!

With a lion’s roar you win some ground,
but tell her you love her.

If not, you’ll be like me.

Writing about love on the lonely
sea, the dock of doom cluttered with
broken sails, amends and promises.

I was rude instead of honest;
I found fault in her eventually!

I SCREWED UP!

Can you ever go back to third grade?
I’d tell her I loved her.  I’d ask her
to play tennis.  I’d take her to the
movies…

But no; I was with the devil since
five, bourbon on Dad’s lap, he and
Mom pretending at divorce while Jesus
just shakes his head!

Man can never separate what the LORD
God has bound together, so Anne:

I’m sorry.

Bound now to bedevilment and alcoholism,
to girls, gals and chicks who treat me bad.

I could have married Anne, but no
I had to fail!  The poet’s tale!

What could I write with the wind of
perfection behind my back; I’d be, sadly—
not a writer at all.

I’d be closer to a “doctor”—a know-
it-all…

I’d be something I was not; “God” has me
just where he or she wants me:

Writing Truth, fiction, lies that supply
the counter and cupboards of jokes and
stories to tell our children.

Warnings to not drink flammable liquids;
to always be true, grab a god first, as it
helps with the courage to be you…

And tell her again and again that you love
her.  Again and again that you love her.

Again and again that you love her; making
up and making amends that you love her…

I screwed up.  I…

Still love her.

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