Tag Archives: Truth

Marriage

12 Saturday May 2018

Posted by in Marriage, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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God gives us all a partner, should we
rise past certain age and size, sprouting
as seeds properly planted by some
all-knowing gardener.

There she is, the boy may declare if
blessed with guts, courage, and truth
to say against the wind that doubts, locks
and fears pride’s fall.

“The wife of your youth” appears in a gay
dress of sudden on a day nothing else
changed. She smiled differently; you loved
her because she loved you,

It’s happened millions of times before,
but before now your mom or dad was
your favorite person—now her.  What to
do now?

For a truly blessed life, never let her go—
that first one.  But since Jesus changed water
into wine, could move a mountain from there
to here—God can and will

if honestly, humbly asked—make your fourth
wife the one that works.  I don’t personally
know how it works but it does, I might even say
it doesn’t work but it does,

For God’s will is exactly what happens at all times
of day and night, and you are with God now.

Perfect, strong, and you.
Weak, loving and true.

It is not us that feel and strive that makes this
an interesting life; it is the blessing that
turns mundane into blessed, moments
unforgettable on a tennis court

of truth, when she saw you, you her,
She smiled your smile—it was one, and
you got married.

I Should Have Kissed Her

04 Friday May 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Then you move on, and that’s it.

And she has kids, is with a man
who did kiss her.

He may have been weird, weak
or a nerd in every other way, but
haven’t you heard?

Love breeds love, the accomplishment
on the sports field, in the classroom
or at work, even the one deposited into
the bank in the middle of the night—

breeds more accomplishment.

“It’s great to be great, but it’s greater
to be human,” said Will Rogers
a dumb poet we loved for his smart
humanity and sneak-up charm,
the Shakespearian clown telling the
truth in such a way as to instruct and
inspire the king.

The clown can talk and talk without
being killed, for for every truth talked
he or she fits in a barb that produces
laughter, hits the funny bone, and
disarms.

I should have kissed her, but lacked
the knowhow and the skills to be human.

I should have kissed her at the end of
the date, that time in the hallway,
alone and one on one because I loved
her—she me.  She was waiting… We could
have blamed the drink,

but I was a year or two away from overdose
and complete failure, where I needed
to go to end my deathly hopes of death
I never knew I harbored.

You drink a flammable substance young,
fail to look it up, see the impact it
has and will later have.

You can’t tell her “I love you,” wonder
why, but must overdose twice—almost
die, before you admit it:

I am alcoholic.

God is the Best Health Care

21 Wednesday Mar 2018

Posted by in God, Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spiritual, Spirituality

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Believe in yourself!

Believe God made you right, perfect
for who you are and when you were born—

there is nothing wrong—are you alive?

If “Yes,” say “Thanks!” and go help
someone in the few minutes we get
on earth to make an impact!

Pray to something big.  Live good days,
and if you feel a lot of pain—

bearing a cross can yield a rainbow from
the rain!  No pain and no gain my sweet,

I gave a few bucks to a dentist once to
pull out my teeth!  Grateful for that, and
some doctors’ expertise.

But let’s take all Western Medicine with
a grain of salt—not alcohol!  Let’s be a little
tougher, know it’s okay just to let
nature heal us—

Something that can’t be done very well
in a metal box firing down the freeway at
seventy miles per hour.

We have to live on the ground a bit to truly
see the vision—see your power!

“I have a vision,” the sober say when they
wake feeling good like a child at Christmas
time.

We deify too many things, but relax:

It’s exactly as it seems!

Words are the glue we spew to fill the seams.

The talk of equality nothing compared to
the Dream!

(It’s a Martin Luther King thing!)

95 theses tacked on a door to rise up
and live while alive, avoid the place
where too many flies fly—

Keep as clean and sanitary as you can
without obsessing and calling your
doctor now, then and again and again.

Trust your body!  Believe in yourself!

Take up your bed, Lazarus!—or Bob, Robby,
Ricky and Mike—Darla, wouldn’t it be darling
to don the smile of the healthy while the
health appeared to be falling.

“Fake it ‘til you make it!”

Read a Henry Longfellow poem, better
yet a positivist Ella Wheeler Wilcox rant!

“Optimism” reminding us that when you
speak health, God will hear your words…

And make them true.

Anger and Alcohol

22 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by in Alcohol, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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We muddle life’s glory—that
which inspires gratitude!

We aren’t satisfied with the way
things are.  So we ferment the truth

until it springs fire, the grape
alone no longer good enough!!

“Let it spoil!”  Yes, let it rot—then
we take the poison and waste it not.

We mix it around, get high, build
Babel from the ground, the apple

and the orange—nothing compared
to altered states, it takes us away

we think to another place of love.

Meantime the Devil has us burrowed
in our drink, so much so that we lose

the power to think.  Wide is destruction’s
path, and we are on it when we steal

God’s righteous wrath!  We say
“it’s okay.  I deserve to be this mad.”

We justify burning cells in our brain;
alcohol distilled to kill the hard part

of being alive, missing its purpose
to perfect its diabolical roll—becoming

a false god before you look up—addicted,
we bow to the flames before many die.

Pick yourself up.  Which is worse, the drug
or the anger bug?  When not drinking,

the alcoholic lashes out.  We take it as
Christians, turn the other cheek.

Forgive.

It is tempting to wrath back at wrath,
but it does no good, two wrongs never

adding up to Right, the only path a tough
one into the forgiving moon of night.

Sorrow sinks, the sunrise brews on our
worst fears.  Breaks suddenly through!

Feeewww.  It’s good to resist the devil.

But first, we must know who he is.

Kennedy Murder, 54 Years Later

22 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, JFK, Political

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Oswald's 6th Collage1

The Glaring Conspiracy Fact:
Oswald’s Rights Have Been Stripped

***

-by Bill Watkins 11/22/2017

CIA killed John F. Kennedy on November 22nd, 1963.

I have written a lot on this, after reading a lot of evidence and credible testimony that point away from the famous suspect Lee Harvey Oswald, and toward Howard Hunt and CIA for the horrible murder and its sad cover-up fifty-four years ago.

New York defense attorney Mark Lane took up the defense for the suspect Oswald after Lee was murdered by Jack Ruby on November 24th, Ruby infiltrating a garage full of Dallas Police officers to strike.

Lane did what any decent attorney would have done—he broke down the prosecution’s case, poked multiple holes in it.  To me, Oswald would have been acquitted of the crime ten times out of ten in a just court.

Hence the murder of Oswald, and the subsequent “Warren Commission,” a convenient prosecution of Oswald without a defense—which allowed Lane to testify, but not to represent the suspect, call witnesses and cross-examine witnesses for the prosecution.  This being convenient to CIA, who planted the Kennedy-fired Allen Dulles on the “commission” to make sure no investigating got too close to the truth.

Our country has a Bill of Rights.  In them is the Fifth Amendment assuring that no American citizen “be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.”  And a Sixth Amendment:

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense.

Lee Harvey Oswald was denied his fifth and sixth amendment rights—first by being murdered.

And then, when his mother, Marguerite Oswald, hired Mark Lane to defend her son before the fraud Warren Commission, the deceased Lee was denied his rights a second time when the “commission” denied Lane’s plea to represent Oswald in the proceedings—eventually citing that Lee’s wife had already denied her husband’s right to counsel.

The Warren Commission was part of the CIA cover-up.

The murder of Oswald was part of the CIA cover-up.

The Commission and biased media outlets denying the deceased Oswald to be represented and defended by Mark Lane was part of a CIA cover-up.

Who locks up documents?  Calls them “Classified”—the American Government word for omerta?  Who has admitted to an assassination program?  A disinformation program?  To meddling in Central American, Iranian, Korean, Vietnamese politics?

Who hated Fidel Castro?  Communism?  John F. Kennedy for not offering air support to the CIA’s botched Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961?

Who heard Kennedy say he was going to dismantle the CIA?

Who hated Kennedy for firing the godfather of American spies, CIA’s big boss Allen Dulles?

Who hated Kennedy for firing Dulles’ right hand man, the brother of Dallas mayor Earle Cabell?

Who was threatened when Kennedy made it known his intention to pull American forces out of Vietnam?

Who was mad that Kennedy kept getting in the way of CIA’s efforts to kill Castro, and retake Cuba for American capitalist interests?

***

The mob hated Kennedy and his brother Bobby for going after them and for allowing Castro to kick them out of the Havana hotel/casino scene.

The racist south hated Kennedy for his overtures to Martin Luther King and the Desegregationists on the move in 1963.

But then there was Howard Hunt.

Blood brother and son to Allen Dulles, moreso to his kill-Castro Operation 40 army mates, training out of Miami, some of them in Lake Pontchartrain, Louisiana.

The blood brothers who formed to stop Castro. They thought they would have their president behind them, as Truman and Eisenhower had always been.

But that young, handsome, intelligent Kennedy, with his high-brow background and education.

A fly in the ointment.

“He got us killed and captured in Cuba that day.  He is a traitor.  Deserves death.”

So, let’s keep paying Operation 40 in Miami, keep training.

Only now, let’s turn those guns against Kennedy on November 22nd, 1963 in Dallas, Texas. The mayor is a friend. His police will help us!

Hoover will help, when he commits to Oswald, and sees what we have on him—and that FBI should have kept a better watch of him. “National Security” will depend on FBI discretion and complicity with our spy community.

We’ll caravan from Miami to Dallas by November 21.  A two-car caravan, one with personnel, the other with guns and costumes—just as Marita Lorenz would later say in a court deposition and in her book.  (Lorenz Depo Highlights)

We’ll hunker down in our motel, wait for Hunt’s money.  Get Ruby his instructions, just as Marita testified…

Then we’ll execute.  Kill the man—our national enemy.  The traitor Kennedy who had turned on his own CIA!

***

But it doesn’t stop there.  The cover-up must be perfect.  We’ll hang Oswald.  We’ll be in Secret Service and DPD uniforms, directing traffic from the start.

We’ll get Hoover and the Dallas D.A. making statements of Oswald’s guilt immediately.

We will out-voice the Mark Lane’s of the world who call out for constitutional rights and the rule of law, due process and all that horse manure.

We’ll pull out all the Hoover stuff, get journalists on our side—write our own articles, get Hunt to forge a telegram implicating JFK in the murder of the Vietnamese president. (Lane, Plausible Denial, 1991, Thunder’s Mouth Press)

We’ll get National Geographic, Time Life, CBS, RCA’s Military-tied NBC to push out the official story, have our agents and sub-agents go around the world, quell the European certainty of conspiracy.

Capture -- CIA release JFK1

Many will doubt and object, but we will push our story. Lock up relevant documents for seventy-five years. Burn and misplace stuff.

p.s. Don’t forget to print some gossip about JFK womanizing to keep people from caring about him too much!

—Love, CIA

***

A sad day today.

Remember John F. Kennedy, the greatest voice for peace in the world on the day he was murdered.

Conspiracy is a fact, when you focus on evidence and testimony in this murder case.

Slander and libel is a fact when you read Wikipedia’s Oswald page, calling him a murderer WITHOUT A TRIAL.

Without his fifth and sixth amendment rights in tact.

Wake up, reader! Join the side of right, law and truth!

Start easy and watch Stone’s JFK.  Then read Garrison.  Then read all of Lane’s first three books.  You will be convinced like me, many times over, that CIA murdered our president.

God bless us to truth, apologies, and better policies!

Love in a Greyhound Bus

06 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by in Erotic, Explicit, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexuality

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I was not looking for love;

She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”

I probably told her this.  She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.

I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.

We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.

I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.

That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.

But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat.  Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”

But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip.  It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.

Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked.  She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.

She said I was “nice.”  This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”

Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—

I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”

And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.

A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex.  The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!

Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.

I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.

We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.

She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.

God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with

a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.

Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse.  God I love
a good bus ride!!

She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired.  She came and zipped up slowly.

She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.

I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.

She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.

Whew!

Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.

Love in a Greyhound bus.  You never know
where it’s going to go right!

NBC Still a Slave to CIA Re: JFK Murder

23 Monday Oct 2017

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, JFK

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Jim Garrison1

-by Bill Watkins 10/23/2017

Louisiana district Attorney Jim Garrison called them out first, but after the weekend’s “reporting” it’s clear that NBC news is “sticking to the official story on JFK no matter what.”

With ties to RCA and the U.S. Military, it is no surprise that NBC News is taking the “easy” way to continue its complicity in CIA murder and collusion.

Defending Lee Harvey Oswald through the only means allowed him, New York defense attorney Mark Lane destroyed the FBI/Dallas Police/CIA prosecution.  In fact, Lane exposed the post-death slander of Oswald as unconstitutional with both of his two visits to the sham political dance disguised as an “investigation” called the “Warren Commission.”

https://www.history-matters.com/archive/jfk/wc/wcvols/wh2/html/WC_Vol2_0020b.htm

https://www.history-matters.com/archive/jfk/wc/wcvols/wh5/html/WC_Vol5_0278b.htm

Damning to the “official report” that patsy Lee Oswald killed JFK with a deficient Italian rifle from a deficient vantage point above and behind the fateful November 22nd, 1963 presidential parade route in Dallas:

1. The first weapon found on the sixth floor of the supposed firing hole, the Texas Book Depository—was a German Mauser, NOT OSWALD’S MAGAZINE-BOUGHT Italian Carcano, a rifle known in Italy as the “gun that lost World War II.”

The weapon was identified as a Mauser by Dallas Police Officer Seymour Weitzman, a gun shop owner knowledgeable enough to along with Officer Roger Craig notice the clear markings “7.65 Mauser” on the gun itself.

Weitzman signed an FBI affidavit to his findings.

FINDINGS THAT WERE DISCARDED WHEN THE FBI DISCOVERED THAT OSWALD OWNED AN ITALIAN CARCANO, NOT A GERMAN MAUSER.

2. Obvious signs from the Zapruder video and witness testimony that gunshots came from in front of the presidential limousine.

Plumes of smoke seen, noise and activity from behind the infamous “grassy knoll:” in front of the motorcade.  Kennedy’s head jerking back to react to frontal shots, grabbing the front of his throat to react to another frontal shot.

3. ALLEN DULLES, CIA spymaster FIRED BY KENNEDY after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, WAS PLACED ON THE WARREN COMMISSION TO INVESTIGATE AND REPORT ON KENNEDY’S MURDER.

Pure bias and inappropriate, an obvious conspiracy FACT that a cover-up was in play.  Prospective jurors are thrown off cases for a lot less than being FIRED by the subject of the case at hand…

4. Warren Commission findings are not credible.  Lone gunman with a Magic “Single-bullet” theory, totally debunked by logic and people like Mark Lane smart enough to expose the sham.

5. Oswald lacked MOTIVE.

To this day, there is no credible motive ascribed to Oswald in relation to a Kennedy murder.  Oswald admired the president, had a hazy past of intelligence involvement, communist leanings suspect in light of his Marine training—which included lessons in the Russian language.

6. Marita Lorenz Testimony:

With no motive to lie (unless she wanted to be placed on a CIA/mafia hitlist for kicks), ex-Castro lover Marita Lorenz moves us finally away from Oswald to…

THE CIA.

Howard Hunt, Frank Fiorini (AKA Sturges) and the Operation 40 Anti-Castro Miami hit team killed John F. Kennedy, not the patsy Oswald.

Lorenz lays out the Hunt payments, the two-car caravan heading out of Miami and into Dallas, Texas on November 21, the day before the disgusting, cowardly hit.

Lorenz saw Hunt at their motel, doling out the dollars.  She saw a man she later recognized from a TV shot as Jack Ruby—Oswald’s eventual killer—also stopping by the killers’ motel.

Lorenz asked to leave the party when she realized what they were planning, but not before she saw enough to peg Hunt and CIA on the scene.

Testimony Mark Lane used to convince a Miami jury in 1985 that Liberty Lobby’s Spotlight magazine published the truth when their Victor Marchetti, ex-CIA writer, wrote of Hunt and CIA’s involvement in the assassination of the peace-striving president of the United States in 1963.

http://www.libertylobby.org/articles/2000/20000207cia.html

A libel case CIA and major news outlets like NBC never wanted folks to worry about too much.  CIA has been running this country politically since 1963.

Samuel’s curse, the result of a military coup seen so often in old Europe, that they never believed in garbage spewed out by Hoover’s FBI, the corrupted Dallas Police Department, nor the always diabolical UN/World Peace-thwarting covert CIA.

Click to access DOCID-32105956.PDF

God said having human kings would bite his people on the butt, and this is the type of thing He or She could have meant.

If NBC and other news outlets would claim to be independent of the ruling U.S. military, they would join this independent poet to denounce CIA as traitors.  Murderers.  The villains that killed JFK en route to millions in Southeast Asia, Kennedy just casualty number one of fifty some-odd thousand American deaths in the conflict.

Yes… with “motive…”  To perpetrate Vietnam, get revenge for Kennedy not providing air support to the Bay of Pigs concoction to overthrow communist Castro—restore a capitalist Cuba for CIA, U.S. interests including Mafia-connected hotel/casino owners.

Get control.  Show that n-lover Kennedy who’s boss in the South.  To not allow Kennedy to break up the CIA, as he had publicly promised to do.

For firing Allen Dulles as CIA director—a man in foreign service since before the whipper snapper Avant Garde American president—youngest in history, was even born.

Kennedy also fired the mayor of Dallas’ brother, something that could motivate someone to change a parade route at the last second, inspire a police department to become part of a dark, horrible moment in U.S. history—painted a rainbow by CIA spinsters for years.

And regarding “spinsters,” no one was worse than America’s “James Bond,” Howard E. Hunt—who forged a document after Kennedy’s death that blamed the murdered president for the assassination of a Vietnamese leader.

Mark Lane’s Plausible Denial (Thunder Mouth, 1991) is full of such sins, including a breakdown of Hunt’s failure in the Miami court to explain his whereabouts when Kennedy was killed in Dallas.

Her Lips are Sealed

21 Saturday Oct 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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What causes the false start,
the gunk to get caught in a pipe
before the truth sledges out—

is the same force, call it “fear,”
afflicting the alcoholic, sipping
sadly alone on his beer.

The hefty bear, wandering around
pure as snow, collecting food for
the winter before time to go…

Hibernation is not just the dream of
the hairy beast; we hide behind the
rocks of safety when called to

tell our controversial truth.  Because
we were judged or abused once, we
are twice shy, and over time we inch

back, back, then far enough back to
turn a fuzzy science project out of
your favorite pie, a prayer to the sky—

Freud in fact said that we drink flammable
liquid for our failure to honestly express
love.  Sex can be scary; intimacy so tender

and again, bring in a past abuse or rejection
and complicated is the issue to the level
of dysfunction.  We lie to protect ourselves;

We shy and seal lips to protect, and that
process has a course.  It ends when we
can with God, Good Orderly Direction, or

Some sort of Power greater than us Forgive
a hurt and learn to trust again.  We must
at some point “out” ourselves, “so why not

now” I may ask a shy one I love. But she
needs time; the flower is not physically
closed—but emotionally and/or mentally

there may be a block.  Sometimes formidable,
but with faith whole mountains can be
moved from there to here, this belief is real—

Recovery comes to those willing to be honest
and heal, “what’s the deal,” well the thing
hinges on Open minds and willingness after

you are willing to trust, let someone in,
and peel back your dress.  God is with
the first feeling, wants us to be honest about

it, but I’ll wait for you to find courage in
the walk toward Truth.  A walk that cannot
be made without the Wife of my Youth.

First wife is last, there is no other; when you
find her, it’s like the day you found God…

There is no other.

America

02 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by in America, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Is nothing without the meaning we give,
the soul of place—words we sing, Amerigo
Vespucci coining something, a coast with waves
and life, indigenous and white.

America is nothing, words without meaning
until we pray and bring in Gods to bless, the
day to day rising like a tide, word to word we
try to match feelings inside.

You look at the world, our word for it, try to
get past Borgesian fictions to accept that words
are what we have to conjure and communicate.
We settle, call things “things”—dream.

America is nothing without the dream we bring,
we fill an empty vessel, the uncarved block
of the Tao Te Ching.  A rose by any other name would
smell as sweet, Shakespeare meat,

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
wants it down in Frostian weeds.  Dust thou
art except the soul, and the demons you fight
in others, immigrants, outsiders

are really inside of the fighter.  Our current
“president” watches a lot of TV, some say this
candidate of hate accentuates the divide the
devil tries.

Good news: you don’t have to do anything.
Stand tall or low, firm or soft—do nothing.
Gandhi wanted to change their minds, not kill
them for universal weaknesses shared by all.

Trump talks taxes during a lethal storm, an evil
brought by the wind of bigotry, hating black
people and women—their turn to lead.  Right and
left, all spending too much,

money we do not have, playing God with promises
impossible to keep, getting elected with
private campaign money the eye of the storm
putting money, not ideas… in government.

We kick the natives and their god out,
run our slaves then pay them not, kill JFK
and accept the official story, for to delve in
too deep gets you killed, CIA diabolical feats.

Mark Lane defended Oswald perfectly from
afar, indicted CIA skillfully for anyone with time
to read. They call our president “powerful,”
a laugh, God’s got a bigger stack of chips—

just think about that.  Asymmetry of information
leans on Trump campaign dudes until we might
segue back to 1972, Nixon in flames, Congress
to blame, or is it Samuel for asking for a king?

Lying every other line is consistent with guilt,
the cover up worse than the crime, corrupt
politicians fattening all the time, and what could
we expect with such a wide path to Evil?

Jesus and the elders were right, but we keep
looking around for an easier fight, until a few accept
the narrow road to heaven, seeing we can’t do
much so wait, ask for a blessing, aspire to patience.

We sometimes embark on geographic solutions,
head off where the grass is greener, the whole
discovery period in Europe one of these but worth it
to advance and bring the world closer to itself.

One click away from the other side of the planet seems
a large feat while a photon of light travels seven times
around it, there must be larger powers, atheists,
there must be!!

The wide narrows when we call out pharmaceutical
ads in their evil, C2H5OH the flammable thing sold
as “drink” by devil’s agents, sport itself a great
gateway to alcoholism and divorce.

While writing this screed, the poem looked back
got hit in the front, wearing headphones, looking
down at a cell while walking—which is worse,
that or driving?

Gan the word for eyesight placed first by Okinawan
karate warriors… Beware!!  Could a man rightly
think he could at least have a Cast Away moment
with his first crush, say good-bye?

God bless us to less whining, more striving—less
expecting on the grateful mission of knowing we
don’t know very much, “America” just a word of
many, a polytheistic remedy to time’s forgotten

mystery, Heaven is peace of mind and “other
such dreams,” life…

“it’s like anything else,” Wood Allen feeds, movies
are what they seem, the daytime soap opera
dream washing out our fatigue, giving us space
to think.

America, lol, let’s look at devils within, be
unafraid looking back, making amends, smoothing
out our belligerence.  Education of the MLK and
Gandhi level takes a special focus,

God bless us to it, the fight for justice.  Never bow
to evil, gird us up, God—let’s beat the devil, cast
him behind;  finally cast away, we can be the knight
in our own epic, be heroes in the strife—

Use words because they’re there, their meaning
growing with every blessing.  God bless these words,
even “America,” and all the other nations needing
you, not men as king.

She Has a Knight

31 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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She didn’t need to call, the ring
from far off sounding men to women,
one for each, Malachi and Solomon
claiming wives of our youth.

I heard the call, ran from it a long time,
like Jonah’s date with a whale, time
would sadly tell a tale of what not to
do when in love…

She had a knight!

A Welsh conqueror in flight;
Once awoken I cannot retreat,
To surrender not in the code, but
only to do right.

Truth may cause the best in us to
prevail against wind and sin, rising up
in us we can only avoid it so long until like
a wave makes toward a pebbled shore—

We choose expression and action over
the whale.  In the end, change becomes
the buzzword of the tale, the dream of all
that we can be becomes now, this moment—

Eclipsing all others, pasts and future bothers,
until we rhyme with time, are the effort
we project, peace of mind the heaven we always
looked up to see.

Tenderness was encased in military-graded glass;
late is better than never to the most needed
of all class, Law precedence taking prescient
permanent residence in the Peaceful pursuit of

the right love for one becoming two, two becoming
three and four all the way to Lao Tzu’s sweet
10,000—the dream of terrestrial ecstasy calling
you and me out of the whale forever.

The crest of Watkins and Wales shines on my vest
as I swoop in disciplined but inspired.  I grab flowers
while I fight back demons, destined to rip apart
violence with submission to Christic love determined.

I shall not strike at the striker, but give him love,
defend the honor of my gal with every strand
of precision and skill my lack of musket can muster
on the field that whispers “gan,” Japanese

Martial arts again, calming all insipience back to
subtle gentility and peace.  The strawberry blonde
desire for my gentle fire cascades somewhere unknown
and far away, while I sit and ponder.

I can only do my best, reach toward God, survey
the day and never speed in its quest.  God help
me now as I pull off my vest, show the heart of the
warrior bleeding poetry from the stream within—

God, you helped me to love but I resisted its
expression, sought the Freudian answer in
flammable liquid, sought the Devil until I cast
him behind, wearing this armor now of veterans

to shine.  I am with the LORD of Hebrew fame
and glory, draw from the native American Great
Spirit, Tao Te Ching and any other truthful spring.

Peace of mind be with her until we meet—

She has a knight vamped low, camping nigh
and high above the flood line.  Smart at times,
but quick to learn, the study of failed kings,
Solomon teaching the wisdom in economic asking.

She has a knight to honor her and God, the
route to both he makes without a pout about
the mapping.

Only God above knows what it is that is truly
right; while clarity ponders my naked sight,
I proclaim like Dylan, a true Watkins humbled by the
night:

She has not only me, but what God alone next
to me can see, she has this prayer, this prince,
this wayward Jonah asking you to dance…

She has so many things and dreams, but she also
has me, fighting for those dreams and God’s
so tenderly.

She has a knight.

She has me…  The better part, the light of God
within me pouring might.

She has God, too, she has a knight!!

If only to fight for the right to be wrong;
she has a knight, for eternal is time and
poems too long.  She has a knight!

And God has us, blessed in an embrace of kings,
so that Samuel can recede, men ruling men
subside, the world toward Eden roar back,
Paradise a matter of smiling in the dark,

choosing happiness with God over knowledge,
Gradgrind’s fact, fact, fact.

She has a knight, and like Jonah I’m coming back.
From Whales to Wales, dark to light, death
to life, lies to truth I’m returning as knights do,
to tell you over and over what always was true:

I love you.

God and truth on my patch next
to flags and sheaths—She has a knight, and only
one.  For others that try to claim her I say they
must be better than I, better and truer so good
luck with that—my heart is yours.

I wish we could all be as happy as me just
to be on the road to peace.  To discard the weapons
of fear, to honor the wife of my youth, and put
God first is to know I am truly here.

She has a knight, and I a lass to love—

I may never see her again, but my honor is full.

And with that I close my eyes in night aware
I was my best person today.

She has a knight, and me my peace of mind—

We are in love in our own lanes, and God will unify
only in His or Her sweet time.

We are apart for now, but not in hearts that know—

God, fill us with happiness, if we do the things
that please You.  She has a knight!

A fella in the fight!!!

No one shall deal treacherously with her, not while
I ride this walkway home.  I love her in the light of
my memory, and that is enough, and so I roam.

She has a knight.  It is me, a Welsh former-
conqueror of lands to the west of the sea.

She has a knight, and he is me, I love her name,
her song, her form it’s “Anne!!”  And she is my
only queen.