Let Me But Believe Bud Bower

This gift of love, compassion

For UNISEX, By-sex, Hetero sex, And United Nations

Children’s Fund, the child who does know–

Would walk a mile, yet, to like Uncle Bud’s house,

Aunt Noreen, all the kids, Jean and Susan, milk goats,

Horses, Bud with bread went to work with truck,

To make millions, his children coming to Roscoe

Bud Bower, outspoken like killing a buck with his gun,

Together, to receive the gold this from father, mother,

When heat attack, stroke, broke old Bud, Noreen,

He would hockey his throat, both my father, Bud,

Play with 30:30 deer rifles, all guns so powerful

With scopes, drive nails into houses, lingering bulldozer

Nowhere fire in pines; nothing my dad left brother,

Me from his millions, a car, a truck, both all old stuff

Could never drive from Pacific Sierra, to Midwest

Cities, but Bud would say, “It’s your dad’s, but

He loves you Chuck; we both would never say

It but when dead.” We watched to yet see in eyes he

Grew old, Bud who would not take his Heart med

Died in late 70s, would not believe, like a buck

Stalking for rut, females, my dad and Bud, Men

Ever men’s men, Bud would have lived who knows,

I take every med, in fields with my lovely cameras

Flowers, butterflies, bugs, Pink Ladies, Monarchs,

Cabbage Moths–I am not a man’s man. Like poems,

Bud, did believe in a Jesus, so I have I fallen

On my titanium knees–oh, his son Jean took all,

Egged me on to fight when I was five, that kid

At Miramonty Indigenous Chief School kindergarten,

Mother, Dougie, and me, dad abandoned us,

My mother, Bud would say to my dad about mom,

“Don’t lie about your x-wife, you severed clean

Divorced in the night.” They never talked again

Not about trucks, or driving nails, or deer rifles.

Dad found a kind of God, so in his wife to him

As he asked about women, he had found his God

“It’s alright, you and Bud finally friends again, Dad

Understand,” Then Bud died scrapping across his floor,

Man’s man, I thought about my books, was not man’s man,

I had written, yet another book, my dad renounced

Everything but his church, yet took communion with me

Left me his care, his heaviness, his belief in horror.

At the end, I was the broken one , thinking back to Bud,

Bud who believed one pulled self up by hunting boots

Straps across working boots, kicked Mexicans out

As my dad, those Darkies, Chinks, any man of color

My daughter who yet believed, became disillusioned.

Bud in background, ever saying, “Len are you honest?”

Published by elgwynone

I was a University and community college instructor before retiring. I also worked in fast food restaurants, and retail stores. I am an ordinary man writing for because I want to write and because my education prepared me to write; BA English lit, MA English, EdS higher education, and MFA creative writing, free verse poetry and essays. Blogs are an answer to high-priced self-publishing. Walt Whitman had to self-publish his first 1000 copies of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass because in 1855 poetry did not sell. Most poets make a living in other ways than writing. Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive, and TS Eliot was a banker. Many writers teach, and always there have been writers who have written because they needed to express their thoughts and feelings. They wrote not necessarily to make money but to express "the old universal truths of the human heart" according to Faulkner. Here I reach a wider audience I missed than by self-publishing, and I stand a better chance to reach a wider audience for less expense than self-publishing. I self-published my first books, Winter from Spring, and Meditations on Gratitude; poetry and photo books which were easier to self-publish than to seek a not to seek a publisher company. This blog allows me to write for an interested audience because I write poetry and personal essays. I write for a friendly audience and present to you a slice of my writing. Perhaps you will enjoy what you read.

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