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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Spiritual

Tlanextili

12 Monday Jul 2021

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

beauty6

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

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

Europe keeps coming for its
concrete—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tlanextili, mente.
Tlanextili, libertad!

Tlanextili, primera gente—
Tlanextili, Esperanza!

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.

La cura es la fe

13 Thursday Aug 2020

Posted by Bill Watkins in Español, Espiritual, Health, La Fe, México, Mexico, Poetic Blog, Salud, Spirituality

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amor, Covid, Covid-19, Dios, Español, Espiritual, God, Health, Higher Power, Hope, Joy, La Cura, La Fe, Lies, Love, Panic, Paz, Pánico, Peace, Salud, Spiritual, Spirituality, The Cure, Western Medicine

La Fe2

-por Bill Watkins 12/8/2020

Cree en el cuerpo que Dios te dio.  ¡Está totalmente equipado con extras!  Un sistema inmunológico asombroso, un cerebro para que puedas pensar por ti mismo lo que funciona para tu camino particular en la vida… Tu propio camino personal hacia la salud, la alegría, el amor, ¡algunos incluso todavía hablan del Cielo!  Llámalo paz mental, vida eterna, tener fe en algo más que tu cuerpo físico, hacer cosas buenas y pensar en los demás antes que en ti mismo.

La medicina occidental tiene teorías vendidas como “hechos”, que Dios no nos hizo ni a nosotros ni a este mundo lo suficientemente bien, por lo que debemos ponerle un cubrebocas.  Bazofia.  ¿Alguna vez, lector, se ha enfermado de verdad mientras su vida estaba en perfecto equilibrio?  ¿Ejercicio, vida al aire libre, una buena dieta, una combinación de amor, juego, trabajo—dormir bien?  Por supuesto que no.  La medicina occidental (los médicos) le hará creer durante su Virus Pánico de 2020 que deberíamos tener miedo el uno del otro. Debemos mantenernos alejados el uno del otro… No debemos confiar en el aire, es malo… ¡Nuestros cuerpos y sistemas inmunológicos dados por Dios no son lo suficientemente buenos!

Bazofia.  Estiércol de caballo.  Falso… ¡No lo compre!  La medicina occidental ha estado vendiendo su aceite de serpiente durante cientos de años, subiendo por la falda del cuerpo humano en busca de todas las respuestas de la vida.  Para ellos y los que creen en ellos, lo físico lo es todo, el cuerpo es la clave para una larga vida, pero creo que definen la “vida” y, de hecho, la “salud” de manera diferente a mí.  ¿Y para ti?  Sabes lo que funciona para tu salud porque vives contigo.  ¿Cómo va a saber un médico o un gobierno más que yo sobre mi salud?

Hemos vivido una mala historia de “conquista” (robo de tierras), crimen justificado por una Biblia, y en ese ambiente de civilización forzada entra la ciencia falsa de la medicina occidental y sus médicos sobrepagados y no confiables.  ¿Cuál fue su alguna vez gran solución para la fiebre y la mala salud física?  ¡Flebotomía!  ¿Cuál sigue siendo su actividad número uno en los consultorios de Occidente?  ¡Extracción de sangre!  “Sí, pequeño Billy, veamos qué te pasa.  Una vez que encontremos lo que está mal, ¡le recetaremos muchos medicamentos saludables!”

Drogas y extracción de sangre.  Bazofia.  Médicos sobrepagados con diplomas otorgados por otros médicos, una comunidad de establecer miedos y enfermedades, y luego presentarse como la gran cura… “¿Será esto en efectivo o crédito, Billy?” Bazofia.  Y peligroso… El miedo es el virus más peligroso del mundo de hoy, la religión más grande que dice tener una cura para él es la Medicina Occidental.

Permítame, por favor, presentarle otro, más antiguo, más sabio y mejor:

Fe.  Fe en Dios.  Fe en un Poder Superior, llámalo como quieras.  Fe en la Creación, en el aire dulce del campo, lejos de las ciudades de médicos, hospitales y grandes facturas… Fe en nosotros mismos.  En este cuerpo asombroso con el que nacimos, en tu propia salud cuando tomas buenas decisiones y vives de manera equilibrada.  Deja las ciudades que Roma arrojó tan violentamente a través de Europa, y que Colón, los españoles y los ingleses forzaron en Turtle Island, Aztlán y otras partes de una tierra antes hermosa y pacífica llamada “América” por europeos egocéntricos, violentos y etnocéntricos.

Rechaza la conquista.  Rechaza el robo a mano armada.  ¡Rechaza la civilización forzada, su ruido y sus curas falsas!  Mantenga la sangre dentro de su cuerpo, diga no al derramamiento de sangre y las drogas de la medicina occidental, encuentre su propia definición de salud y vida, una más amplia con la que sueña la filosofía de los médicos.  Di no al Kool-Aide, ¡lo han mejorado y lo han estado durante años!  El agua es mejor que la cerveza, un paseo por la naturaleza es mejor que una visita al médico y la fe en Dios es la cura que esperabas que te trajera un cubrebocas en la cara.

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!

To Peace

23 Wednesday Oct 2019

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alcoholism, Decisions, Joy, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry, Spiritual

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.

We Can Rise

14 Friday Dec 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in God, Health, Men's Health, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Spiritual

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

God, Health, Intact, Joy, Love, Men's Health, Peace, Rights, Spiritual

The seed wars to become a flower.
Democracy lies—calls people power.

Songs rhyme, the words nothing compared
to truth itself.  You pause, pray,

Give strength clean away, turn it over
We can rise.  With a god of your own
understanding, we can rise, the mystic
reason for the four seasons calling
in the night, dreams the funeral of
ignorance, chopping off parts of a penis

while our infants cry; listening to the
devil, the easy way, “What did the white
coat say?”

***

Great native spirit, aboriginal ESP, a poem
scribbled into sand by Vikings or Celtic
sages, Romeo and Juliet giving English
reasons like seeds to sprout and spread
like a wildfire of color across a northern
California coastal hill.

“God” is the name itself for some, the
goal heaven, and for it we rise.

We can overcome the worst, from ashes
bloom again, seven deadly sins trying to
burrow into holes made before we make
first decisions.

The cliff upon which we walk is forged
to challenge, the echoes of forefathers
and foreskins causing blood to pour out
in lines, the prayer a call of the realistic,

the humble are true when they admit they
cannot without divine help reach the
golden crest that is Peace of Mind.

We can rise.

But we must first admit we fell, ring the
bell that we’ve been to hell.

God, forgive us, let’s mobilize with every
breath to make amends for friends like
wind forgotten with circumcised sips
of flammable liquid passed down from
generation to generation,

Friends in armor, friends who gave
us warmth and farming techniques,
helped us survive winters before
we cast them out at gunpoint, claimed
to found a nation already here.

I’m a white man living on stolen land,
littered concrete and asphalt, helicopters
screaming war while anyone standing
high enough for peace is shot down from
Gandhi to Jack to Martin to Bobby to Oscar
to John of the Beatles, the evil wind
soaring never changed.

We can rise, the minority report flourishing
at times, enough to give us hope
like a birdie between double bogies,

We can rise.

With an ounce of truth told into the
hurricane of lies, we can turn the evil
ship around, apologize.

Admit we raped, pillaged and stole,
see the humanity we are—naked
and part of the earth.

Don’t ever snip earth worn naturally
by children, mutilate a baby against
God’s will.

The baby’s cry is God’s protest; stop
cutting, start listening.  Get out of your
car, join me on the walk to Heaven.

One Goal and Basket

24 Tuesday Jul 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Eternal Life, God, Heaven, Love, Spiritual, Truth

What a confusing mess, waking
up alive in a basket of confusing,
stench-filled piss, not the physical
kind—

more like the lie told and believed
that alcohol is good to drink.

Another that it’s okay to have many
focuses and gods, play sports and
compete in pretend fights, slotting
passes and balls into a hoop.

Meantime the march for some to
Heaven continues, for those who
had that goal all along.

While we sought ways to deceive
another team or player, they sought
ways to love and give to the poor—

true gifts coming from our own
poverty, of course.

The slugger or forward on the team,
a confused pursuit of “victory,” leaving
the ultimate prize behind—

God.  Heaven.  A Peace of Mind!!!

***

Wake up in piss, but wake up!

When down the wrong road, turn
around now!

The goal… the basket… the only there
is is a contented sleep in the poem
spun by One, obstructed by
scoreboards and bars, the path
to hell wide and well-traveled.

Leave it and find the narrow a
better, albeit harder walk!

Die with me into this humble
song not on your TV;

die from the lies, and turn
toward the cross on your back;

Eternal Life.

The Dragon’s Back

23 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in God, Mystical, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Wales, Welsh

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Arthur, Celtic, Celts, Dragons, Druids, England, Father, God, Honor, Joy, Lady of the Lake, Love, Magic, Merlin, Mother, Mystical, Nature, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spiritual

Sexuality swirls around the planets,
a kind of erratic, organized chaos of
life we cannot see unless by great
effort and powerful lens.

Beneath the surface of things,
the duck’s feet fight and pound and
move, often unconsciously—beating
eggs like water polo players perpetually.

Walking is a thing; we are wise to find places
for feet on ground, to get out
of civilization’s attempt to comfort
and protect against elements—

The dragon’s back, scaly and strong,
unstable and challenging, the smoke
rising off the water at sunset, the
Lady of the Lake guarding underneath,

offering help for the helpless, but
only when you are humble and ask.

Songs true and off the horizon of
the green, valleys fog over and wet,
the rain and clouds lifting the flower
from the hill, wars fought to appease

the up and down movement of the Chinese
Tao, the Russian doll, the Native American
Great Spirit expressed in Mothers and Fathers
honored in the beast.

We are talking animals, bucked by time
and nature when acting right or wrong—
it’s just that the Righteous get bucked
amidst peace of mind’s post-rain bow.

I dream of a return to land to my east,
a Celtic field in a Welsh storm, the
dragon’s back never more evident
than on the cliffs of England.

400 years in a foreign land is nothing
to the man who plants.  Sunshine and
rain feed the soul here as others,
a song to sooth here as much as there—

The dragon can buck all he wants,
but when the mind is rooted in the Quest
he cannot move the soul bound for heaven,
where heaven is Peace,

Something only achieved through
warring against temptation and winning,
not because we are great, but because
the tools at our feet are there, and we

humble ourselves enough to pick them
up and use them.  Or not.

Our mind’s eye sees all truths, before
words, so we utter a growl, breathe
and stop.

I am the dragon.

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