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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

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Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet

Tag Archives: Truth

The Death of Bush: Another JFK Murderer Silenced?

03 Monday Dec 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in JFK, Kennedy, Poetic Blog, Politics

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

History, JFK, Love, Truth

Cloudy Bush2

—by Bill Watkins, 12-3-2018

***

I do not feel much for the loss of George Herbert Walker Bush, as many do on my favorite cable news channel, MSNBC.  What I do feel is regret that I did not work harder to get an interview with my uncle’s old boss.

Yes, I’m the nephew of a Bush Sr. cabinet appointee, Admiral James D. Watkins (1927-2012), called to run the Energy Department after heading up Ronald Reagan’s AIDS Commission in 1986.  Before that, my uncle served in the Navy, retiring as Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) not long before accepting the Reagan post.

Years and years earlier, a lot of mystery clouds George H.W. Bush.  Between gigs as a Yale undergrad, notorious Skull and Bones member, “Texas Oil Man” and a place in the House of U.S. Representatives—was he an active CIA operative, critical to the botched Bay of Pigs operation of 1961?  Was he in Dallas on November 22, 1963, and did he, like E. Howard Hunt, have a role in killing John F. Kennedy?

Watch John Hankey’s clever, upbeat horror doc to wake up from any nap, then join me in suspecting George H.W. Bush of covert activity and cover-stories while in the CIA throughout the 1960’s prior to being elected to Congress.  It’s called The Dark Legacy and is available wherever you stream your videos, or from his website: http://www.thedarklegacy.com/.

When I watch the burial services of George H.W. Bush, I feel no sadness.  Only regret that I did not push through with my connections to get a good interview with the man.  Maybe I could have appealed to his highly reported sense of “honor” and cough up some truth!  I believe another of JFK’s murderers has finally passed away this week, and you will too if you research around a bit.  Start with Oliver Stone’s JFK for overview, get into Jim Garrison’s book, On the Trail of the Assassins, then read everything attorney Mark Lane ever wrote on the subject of the Kennedy killing.

Killing Kennedy is not our only national sin, definitely not the first!  We killed off and lied to Native America, stole land, and worked that land with slaves we never paid nor made true amends to, I’m sorry to say.

If we are ever to be a decent country, we must tell the Truth.  The truth of this week for me is that I look forward to moving past another JFK farce, get back to Mueller squaring up Donald Trump for obvious crimes committed, including Obstructing Justice by firing James Comey at the five o’clock hour on May 9th, 2017.

Trump’s Wall

29 Thursday Nov 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Love, Peace, Trump, Truth, Wall

You can’t be too open about
racism and xenophobia and expect
to win people’s approval, even an
election.

So you talk about a wall between us
and them, the whites and the Others.
The ones you know, who speak your
language, and the Others.

We make the gangs in America, have
had a covert one at Langley for years—
then export them to the south.

They get bigger and more powerful
down there, then export themselves
back to America…

But wait, isn’t this all America?  South,
Central, and North—

Ethnocentric we call ours the real
America while we bury old treaties
with real Americans, bury our promise
to give forty acres and a mule, keep
documents and truth “classified top
secret” that point to CIA as the
real murderers of Kennedy, Martin,
Kennedy and John.

Oscar Romero killed by CIA-backed
killers, and Trump blames El Salvador
for MS-13?

“Build the Wall!” they chant instead of
“We hate brown people!”  Hate from
anger from fear, as Yoda said—

nine out of ten people are half-dead,
so don’t hate the folks screaming
MAGA and Lock her Up; they
need our love and forgiveness, a hand
to humbly reach out, as people did
for me in AA, people did for Arno and
Christian following light out of hate
groups tied to the KKK.

Donald’s dad arrested for fighting with
them, racist rental practices, a man
grows up with lies and continues
to lie!

The answer is not hate and walls, but
still—as it’s always been—love and truth.

I Was Hurting

30 Tuesday Oct 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Education, Love, Peace, Regret, Truth

Poly, my old school, still shut
me out, not caring even with Dad’s
money in their account.

1985, “Don’t you Forget About Me”
I hear the time machine, enter it
and fight back tears,

shaking for all the harm caused by
not being true.  I loved her and did
not say, I drank “beer” and

called that okay; I joined a team
and tried to look good, I got good
enough grades—chose them over

honest dreams since alcohol on
Dad’s lap, with friends by twelve,
blacking out by thirteen, pre-

pubescent and small, not five feet
tall, not 100 pounds I looked around
and tried to be cool, missing love;

missing truth.

I was alcoholic at a young age, missed
the Spring of life, when fruit is ripe
left untouched on the vine and tree.

God forgive me.

Home Runs with Dad

27 Saturday Oct 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Baseball, Dad, Giving, Joy, Love, Peace, Truth

Baseball1

A favorite person forms like
a wave inside your own front door,
waiting for him to return from
Jorgensen Steel.

6 o’clock, on the dot it seemed, by
the bannister I waited for him
you could hear a pin drop, the
clippity-clop of the business suit
with shoes,

Old Spice aftershave, and if there
was a smell of coffee or smoke
on a jacket, this was the seventies,
Dad a people person with all types,
smoking, drinking—getting a deal
done, let’s smile but first:

Let’s be safe.  Clean is safe.  The Navy
is clean.  One, two, three, four—
we succeed by clearing the deck of
debris.

Loose will not do.  We can party
later, but for now: it’s time to clean
up our acts, lickity-split get the turkey
in the oven, a ballgame’s on the TV.

Ouch, that’s hot.  Stay away from that,
Billy.  Stephen, can you get my mitt?
Where’s Missy?

Johnny’s hiding?  Oh, he’s with Billy.

Watch out!  That’s hot, too!  I hope
they learn their way—

Crack, I knew it off the bat; Steve Garvey
went deep, Pedro Guerrero, I’ll lift
little Billy in the air until he’s too heavy
or I’m too old, or both.

It’s good to be the king.  It’s good to
win one, but you can’t count on it,
so think of others.

Don’t wait for them to clear the deck,
be ready to do it yourself.

Follow God, through His son Jesus
Christ.  Hold the LORD’s prayer tight.

Be the apple in the eye of all that’s
right—do your best, there’s nothing
more we can.

Crack off the bat, another home run.

Where’s little Billy?  The best us is you
and me, Adele and the song we play
at Christmas time.

Did you get your wreath?

We’re Celtic and Roman and Christian,
go back a long ways, Welshmen brothers
three sailing with Captain John Smith,

we made it with Native help, thank
God every morning and day, say
three prayers at night before you hug
your rainbow-colored pillow, furniture
I bought and painted for your room.

I didn’t do it all my way, her way, their
way.  God runs this ship.

I just kept the deck clear.  Stephen!  Johnny!

Katherine!  Billy!!

The deck’s all clear, deck the halls
do it all with cheer and know I’m always
here.

Did you get your wreath?

Yes, Dad, thanks.  We love it.  We always
do.  Thanks for thinking of us, for going
to Jorgensen everyday for us, for the
lives you touched, for the effort you
made.

The deck is now clear, for the church
and your wreath—the spirit you always
bring, the effort, the song and dance—

a soft shoe because David did it too.

Thanks for a chance to please the LORD,
honor you and Mom.  1925 to 2017 are
numbers, ninety-two times around the sun,
shining bright.

My dad was a clean hit over the wall in
center, a moon over night, a dream for
five year olds at a bannister waiting to
laugh and grow, be first after God in the
heart of an Alhambra-born hero of seven
kids destined to make more, be more, and
do good for as long as I write.

Ted and Eddy, do your parts.  Ring out
to Orange County, Central Coast, the East
and from there across the ocean and
see the Celtic cross we brought across.

Giving effort!  Protecting your family!
Leaving your mark at God’s feet, kneeling
before every strike to be the best
person he could have been.

Rise up, all, with John Watkins in
your heart and step, finish his work
well, never fully-dressed until smiling
meaning the deck is clean, and
the boat’s on a proper course.

The next challenge will be there.

Not with me, but with what you learned;
so turn, don’t… it’s up to you, but know
I’m with you, and hope as I always did
that you turn out well!

Dad.jpg

John Francis Watkins

(1925-2017)

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.

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

Poetry Workshop

07 Sunday Oct 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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.

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.

Turn Around

27 Monday Aug 2018

Posted by Bill Watkins in Cosmic, Creation, God, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Universe

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Awakening, Big Yang, Creation, God, Joy, Love, Peace, Recovery, Truth, Universe, Woke

Before time began, we were ordered
but not yet delivered—the point of
sale hot and hairy with the friction
of moving bodies through space.

One “day at a time” was created by
faraway forces, all in perfect harmony
with a divine plan—the mystery impossible
to penetrate, the more pondered,

the more lost in that… space…

Truth comes to us late in life, sometimes
after horrible events, always when
we least expect

After the conditioner wears out,
blood instead of shampoo on the
bathroom floor, vomited mess.

We were sure war was good and manly.
We were sure men should be strong.
We were sure sports were good to play.
We were so sure college was important.

July 4th exploded in our face.

We saw the light, when we read a
real deed to the land to find it more
native than white—to have stolen
property a curse on everything in
civilization we do.

Perhaps that is why we, not the
native people, so often curse, cuss
and spite our walk on concrete.

***

Turn around.  Look back, when it’s
safe, tell the truth; start with strangers
if you must, and swim toward the next
real thing, peace of mind the chime on
fourteen bells of alarm so alarming
you’d rather silence it than tend to the
fire burning all around you.

Burning earth, driving cars, helicopters
playing more war in my “city” stolen
because our British forefathers thought
it the only way to live.

A bible?  A bound set of papers with ink
on them?

Could it ever compare to the waterfall?
The river?  The mountains, the valleys
of gold in morning’s light, saunas for the
sun if the desert catches it just right,
lick it up bright—

I call this life crazy, but I’ll ‘til the wheels
come off live it, it’s my right.

To swing around the sun a hundred times
a goal of sum;

Dogs and cats more honest in fifteen,
some birds to sixty, disease a myth of
the rich, while the poor continue as
the prophet said, blessed with the meek

The sorrowful now under feet with a key
to heaven easily won, take a peak.

Thunder to roll, God by another name as sweet,
this is or is not a game played by at least
some far off unfathomable beings.

Maybe green, blue, fat or small, maybe
E.T.

The native chiefs knew, but many of
us just wanted to thump our book;

both point to the Great Mystery.

My President and King

01 Wednesday Aug 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bible, God, Love, Peace, Religion, Samuel, Truth

The blind leading the blind
down blind alleys and suffering;
what can a human king do for
a human being?

Samuel was a fool to ask for one,
you were fooled to vote for one;

Real power in the sky, stream and
stars that are beyond our arms,
the dance of wind and change on
your face, the leaves and branches
shadows all over the place yielding

what a man cannot:

Peace.

***

Samuel trudge back!

Go back up that hill or hut,
sound the alarm or bugle or
whatever trumpet says “Hey!”
We’ve gone amuck!

Give back the reins, let God take
it over from here.

God is my king and my president,
Smile.

And never fear!!!!!!!

Real Medicine

27 Friday Jul 2018

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, God, Health, Love, Peace, Positivism, Truth

Say you are well, or all is well with you,
And God shall hear your words and make
them true.  –E.W.Wilcox

See how much better you
do today, if you refrain from
complaining about physical
ailments real or imagined.

See how much more you enjoy
this life, if you appeal to One
Doctor, Mother Nature, the
healing wind inside or out—

available to us all!  See what
life can be the moment we
stop fearing its cessation, your
health closely linked to what

you think and say about it.

You cannot serve two masters,
so if you believe in God, speak
in godly ways, not “my doctor
said I have…”

No you do not have…

You are alive for one more
day so I advise saying thanks,
live it, and smile.

The day the smile fades forever,
is the same one we give our
physical shell up, our spirit
if vigorous shines and flies

this way and that, here forever
with the things here that last
forever.

God, truth, and the way of
the American waterfall, shaping
our views to combine them in One.

Streamline your thoughts,
simplify your life, and find
at the end of days peace won,

Victories achieved by
abandoning the speed of drugs for
the calm stroll of pleasing God,

your path to heaven finally
and fully begun.

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