Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts

05 June 2026

Robert F. Kennedy on Violence in America

  This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.

  It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.

  Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet. No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.

  Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.

  "Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs." Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.

  Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.

  Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul. For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter. This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.

  I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.

  We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.

  Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.

  We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.

  Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution. But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.

  Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again.

– Robert F. Kennedy


02 February 2024

Debt

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  He started, sensing a presence behind him.
  “There aren’t many people who can sneak up on me,” he reflected.
  “I didn’t,” the form replied, quietly. “I’ve followed you for a long time; since your very beginning, in fact. And, waited patiently.”
  “I was a good man… once,” he whispered, as realization dawned. “After I was broken, it just became too painful to care.”
  “Life is often that way,” the figure offered. “But, I am not here to judge; only to collect the debt each man must pay.”
  Examining his own body on the ground, he nodded; then turned to follow.



22 January 2024

The Inevitability of Things

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

Inspired by Christina Alvarado

  He’s always there. Always following. Steadily gaining ground. Inexorably closing in.
  Too often, he’s forgotten in the rush of life – until he visits someone close, and we’re reminded of the inevitability of things.
  He arrives without joy or malice. He makes no bargains for more time. He expects acceptance, though he is never surprised when people attempt escape.
  I turn quickly, trying to catch a glimpse. He is standing in the shadows. Not hiding – that’s not his way. Moonlight glints off the blade of his scythe.
  “Memento mori,” he whispers.
  I give a knowing nod, and turn to walk on.



19 March 2023

Revelation

By Bud Koenemund

  He slouched on a park bench as heavy flakes of snow fell. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to watch them descend through the muted, yellow illumination of gaslights lining the walkway before him. The agony in his chest, however, made it difficult to focus on anything beyond taking the next breath.
  Blood trickled over his stomach in thin rivulets, soaking his shirt and pants. It dripped to the concrete below and quickly froze. Hearing movement behind him, he tried to turn, but a lightning bolt of pain ripped through his upper body.
  “Is that you, Yuri?” he asked the darkness.
  “Da,” a voice answered.
  “I figured it out,” he said. “Just too late.”
  “Always trust your gut,” Yuri said. “This is what you Americans say, is it not?”
  “I’ll remember that next time,” he said, with a laugh that devolved into a choking cough.
  “For you, my friend, I fear there will be no next time,” Yuri replied, taking a seat on the bench opposite his.
  He nodded, but remained silent for nearly a minute.
  “How did you find me?” he asked, finally.
  “This is your favorite place,” Yuri answered.
  His head lifted drunkenly.
  “How do you know that?” he asked.
  “Matthew,” Yuri clucked, “give me some credit, please.”
  He drooped at the sound of his real name.
  “We’ve learned much about you over the years,” Yuri assured him.
  Yuri stood and slowly approached him.
  “Perhaps it is fitting our little game ends here,” Yuri said, removing a pistol from his coat.
  Matt thought of the girl he’d kissed, right here on this bench – the first real kiss for both of them. Her face materialized in his mind: her curly red hair; striking blue eyes. He’d loved her, and told her so. She’d requited the sentiment. It was love before either truly knew what love is.
  “Goodbye…” Yuri began.
  Matt didn’t hear the shot. But, the thud of a large caliber bullet striking a human body, and the sickening sound of the air being forced out of Yuri’s lungs, was unmistakable. For a moment, a confused look twisted Yuri’s face. He staggered backward, his arms went limp, and he crumpled to the ground.
  “Goodbye, Yuri,” Matt wheezed.
  “You are a fool,” a female voice said.
  “I’ve never been accused of being very smart,” he said.
  “Letting him shoot you, though?” she mused.
  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” he joked.
  The woman stepped out of the shadows.
  “Hello, Lyla,” Matt groaned.
  “You Americans…” she said, “always so foolishly heroic.”
  “That’s us,” he agreed.
  “Hmmm… at least you helped us uncover the traitor,” she admitted.
  “You’re welcome,” he said.
  “You should get to the hospital before you bleed out,” Lyla advised.
  Three men joined them in the light. Without a word, they retrieved Yuri’s gun; then lifted his body and carried it away. Lyla followed them into the gloom.
  “Oh, no; don’t worry,” Matt called out; struggling to stand. “I can make it on my own.”



23 April 2022

Reflection

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

For James

  Pale moonlight filtered through the dirty window panes, supplementing the meager illumination provided by half a dozen candles. The ancient Medium shuffled to her table – the movement stirring up dust which drifted in the gloom. Taking a seat before her crystal ball, she waved her hands back and forth over it, calling for an image to appear. Her old eyes struggled to focus. Finally, she recognized the dark figure – one she'd seen here many times. A moment later, she realized this was no vision, but a reflection from behind.
  "I've been waiting for you," she sighed, "...for a long time."


09 March 2022

You'll Be Damned

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  The hardest part of accepting you’re not a superhero anymore is the realization that truth, justice, and the American way aren’t black and white. They all exist in shades of gray. And, one day – perhaps more than one – you have to make the decision to do a little wrong in order to do a greater right. The difficulty isn’t in worrying about being caught by someone else: it’s living with yourself; with the death of your idealism. After believing in something with everything you are – then violating it – you feel your heart break… and know you’ll be damned for it.


02 March 2014

Vulgar Divinity

By Bud Koenemund

For Kitty


The words – vulgar – not for use in polite company.
Yet, somehow beautiful in your mouth…in the moment.
Arms embracing…
Bodies superimposed…
Penetrating…
Fingers searching…
Intertwined…
Mouths touching, each breathing in the others' breath…
…and your moan in my ear, urging me on.

In the physical, we're not "making love,"
or merely "having sex." No, desire for one another has driven us past that.
And, as our little deaths approach…
Inevitable…
Unstoppable…
"Fuck me!"
This plea, paired with endearments, becomes divine;
a connection to some heavenly thing I reach out to grasp
before plummeting back to Earth.

26 December 2013

Old Men, Old Books

By Bud Koenemund

  The old man – despite the protestations of his home nurse – struggled to throw off the blankets and stand. Teetering slightly, he shuffled across the thick carpet deliberately. Reaching one of the many dark cherry-wood bookshelves lining the walls, he lifted a thick tome, and then slowly returned to stand beside my chair.

  Watching him move, I prayed silently he would not fall.

  He held out the book in both hands, as if offering it to me.

  "See this?" he asked, opening the cover and pointing at its publication date. "1912. More than 100 years old."

  A whistle of sincere appreciation escaped my lips.

  "I doubt anyone will ever read on a 100 year old electronic gizmo," he said with a laugh that quickly turned into a choking cough.

  The nurse reached out for him before I could stand to help steady his frail body.

  "You take it," he said, thrusting the book toward me, when he finally caught his breath.

  "Oh, Sir; I couldn't take your…" I began.

  "It's not mine," he interrupted. "And, while it's filled with his words, it's not William Shakespeare's either. Though, he and I will be discussing it very soon."

  I smiled.

  "I'm not its owner any more than you will be. Those of us who love books – those like you and I – we're more like caretakers. I'm not its first, and I want to make sure I won't be its last. Take it, read the words; turn the pages, let them slip over your fingertips; savor the scent of it.

  I reached out for the book he still held.

  "I'm about to shuffle off the mortal coil, as Will would say," he croaked, "and, I don't want that lost in a dusty library basement, or hidden away in the private collection of some pretentious schmuck."

  I laughed as my fingers caressed the century old cracked leather cover. I fought the urge to open it immediately.

  "You could leave it to your family, or donate it, or have it put on display," I tried to counter.

  "Take it," he ordered. "Someday, when your time comes – and it will come – pass it on to someone else."

  "I can't thank you enough," I said, while his words turned over in my mind.

  "I've spent a lot of years trying to figure out what it is about books," he said. "The books we give as gifts mean something, I think. Maybe they say something about who we are. Or, about who or what we want the recipient to be."

  He turned back to his bed. As he climbed into the pile of blankets and pillows, I collected my things. Knowing it unlikely I would see him again – at least in this world – I thanked him once more for his time, and his gift.

  I descended the stairs haltingly, wanting to go back and ask one more question. I exited the front door meditating on what he'd said about books, and wondering what he wanted me to be.

24 August 2012

Tortured

For TK

Inspired by Jack, Neal, and Allen

We could see the darkness and were blind in the light. We stood, dumb, as a vomit of colors, and words, and numbers whirled around us. We were everything, and everywhere, not with each other, but within everyone; enveloped by a stream of power, drowned and reborn. It was beautiful. And, more beautiful because it was not limited by any form or definition. The waves swept away all thought of past or future. There was only the now, and we were it, and it would never end. It was an explosion, like the birth of the universe, and the death of everything all at once. We wielded energy, pure and liquid, against a roiling sky of neon. We were omnipotent within the world of our minds; and yet powerless to save ourselves. Our minds burned with the fever of knowledge; knowing everything, comprehending everything, thirsting for more, even as it all fell away as quickly as it came. A hurricane raged around us, stripping away our doubt, revealing in chaos: order. We reached out to touch it, to embrace it, and somehow pull it back within us before consciousness blotted it from our brains; struggling to save some small fragment of it. But, it could not be. It could not live beyond this dream, and so much was lost as our eyes opened, once more blind in the light of day.

24 May 2012

Death, and the Victim

There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep.
- J.R.R. Tolkien

It wasn’t like I was an attractive child; “Husky” was the diplomatic euphemism the J.C. Penney catalog used to describe my body-type. Of course, being beautiful would not have been any kind of excuse for the things he did…for what he took from me.

For years, I’ve been able to lock the memories away; way back amongst the cobwebs in a seldom visited corner of my mind. Occasionally, of course, something would remind me – catching a whiff of cigar smoke, seeing someone chewing tobacco, a news story about a child being sexually abused – but I’d quickly push the memories back into that corner, until now.

Why dredge up the memories now, after nearly three decades? Why reveal something that I’ve never told another living soul? Because, my maternal grandfather, Arthur H. Monigold, the man who sexually assaulted me several times in the early 1980s, is dead.

He was diagnosed with Cancer early in 2007, but he didn’t tell anyone. A week before he died, while he lay in a hospital bed, his doctors informed family members that they expected him to die at any time. And, on October 17, 2008 – my 40th birthday – he did.

Standing beside his casket; seeing him for only the third time in nearly 25 years – knowing that it would be the last time I would see him on this earth – he didn’t look like “Grampa.” He was no longer the man who towered over me back when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. He looked like a wax sculpture. His once-strong fingers and sharp hawk-like nose were withered and shrunken. He was nothing more than a pile of wrinkled, leathery skin buttoned up in the last suit he’ll ever own.

And I was happy to see him off. It took a long time, certainly a lot longer than expected, or deserved, but I guess that if the good die young, the evil seem to live damned-near forever.

Most people will find it a bit strange that I’m celebrating a death in the family. I don’t mean celebrating the life which preceded the shuffling off of the mortal coil, but actually rejoicing that a family member is now residing in the deepest, darkest, hottest pit, in the lowest level of Hell, with several demons assigned to make his eternity as terrifyingly uncomfortable as possible. I assure you, my vivid imagination turns to the worst horrors that John Milton and Dante Alighieri ever described.

I could tell you some of the good things the man did in his life. He served in the United States Army during World War II. He spent decades working in Ohio steel mills. He married, fathered seven children, and adopted another. He provided food and education for the entire clan, and watched them all marry-off.

But those good things only make what he did to me more difficult to understand. His abuse wasn’t like a father teaching his son to be tough by telling him not to cry when he skinned his knee, or when he got hit by a pitch while playing baseball. It was a grown-up taking sexual advantage of a child. A child entrusted to his care, a child who trusted him; a child who was probably more damaged by keeping the secret of the abuse, than by the actual abuse. My grandfather told me not to tell anyone, and I didn’t…for nearly thirty years.

I wasn’t the only child he abused. Unfortunately, I’ve learned of three other children – all family members – that he hurt. In addition, over the last several years, I’ve received hints and heard rumors about his abuse of two other family members. The knowledge that I might have been able to stop some of the others from being hurt burns me – if I had just told on him – if I hadn’t kept his secret…

When I learned of his imminent death, I did not travel to Ohio for some kind of death-bed reconciliation. I did not wish to hear an apology or an excuse – if he had even offered one. Too many of my “issues” can be traced directly back to his abuse.

It is why I don’t like being touched by any but my closest friends. It is why I don’t trust many people – and rarely give a second chance to the few I do. It is the biggest reason why I don’t sleep at night, even in my own bed. It is the reason that I am always suspicious of peoples’ intentions with children and constantly self-conscious about my interactions with my 4-year-old niece. No, I felt – and still feel – no need or desire to forgive him or to forget what he did to me!

What I do feel is hate! Hatred at him for what he took, and hatred at myself because I let him take it! Because I couldn’t do anything…because I still can’t do anything. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to drive to Ohio and strangle the life out of him with my bare hands. I wanted to look into his eyes as the life left them, and see his final realization that I was taking something valuable from him. But I didn’t. I didn’t use the fact that I’m bigger and stronger than someone else to hurt them!

Too often, I hear people use their own past sexual abuse as an excuse to explain their abuse of a child. As if that is any kind of justification for visiting that kind of pain on a child. As if there could ever be any justification for that. Yes, I was sexually abused as a boy, but I would drag razor blades across my eyeballs before I would intentionally hurt a child.

I didn’t make a scene at the funeral home. I politely declined a request to serve as a pall-bearer. And, despite my repeated blustering that I would remain at the cemetery to help the workers cover him with dirt, I did not. Before the service began, however, I found a quiet moment to stand beside his casket and slide a list of his crimes – the ones I know about – inside his jacket, as a kind of boarding pass for the trip to Hell. I wanted to make sure that the Devil didn’t miss anything.

This revelation…this confession…is not about finding some kind of closure for myself. I’m certain that if I haven’t found closure by now, I never will. No, this is about the truth; a truth that should have come out a very long time ago.

I know, of course, that I’ll see my grandfather again…someday. We will have a lot to talk about while we both spend eternity in Hell. Until that day, however, I’ll go on living my life as best I can – an endeavour more difficult some days than others. As painful as it is, I’m trying to learn to accept the past for what it is – rather than pushing it back into that dark corner – because I know that it will always be there, and I can’t change it now.

F. Scott Fitzgerald illustrates this struggle in the last sentence of The Great Gatsby. He writes, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” The fact is, we each suffer from the accumulated wounds of our lifetime. We can wash away the scabs of immediacy, but the scars remain to remind us of the pain much longer…sometimes forever. My scars will never fade completely. My memories will always have the power to carry me back to the past. All I can do is beat on against that current.


For information about missing, abused, neglected, and murdered children, please visit these sites:

Child Abuse and Neglect – HelpGuide.org: http://www.helpguide.org/mental/child_abuse_physical_emotional_sexual_neglect.htm

The National Center for Missing & Exploited Children: http://www.missingkids.com/missingkids/servlet/PublicHomeServlet?LanguageCountry=en_US

The National Sex Offender Public Website: http://www.nsopr.gov/

NetSafeKids Home Page: http://www.nap.edu/netsafekids/

19 May 2010

Poets Never Really Die by Suicide

The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. – Ernest Hemingway

Poets never really die by suicide,
The sad victims of self-inflicted harm;
Though it’s often the cause the Times will cite,
In obits written while the body’s still warm;
They do not succumb to mere oven gas,
Single-car “accidents” on long, straight roads,
Exposure, starvation, or shotgun blasts;
Nor to drowning, slit wrists, or overdose;
Sadly, many fall long before they jump,
Or break their necks at the end of a rope;
They die when faith is lost and spirits slump;
When this mortal life leaves them without hope.
The cause of death need not be picked apart,
For poets only die of broken hearts.