Lessons Unlearned

By Bud Koenemund

For "The Three"

My inebriate
heart too often overrules
sober intellect.

All Over Again

By Bud Koenemund

I think about you

every day. And, miss you

all over again.

Retreat

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

For "Her."

  His eyes were drawn to her instantly. Like a firefly in the dark, she was a brilliant flash in the gloom. Catching sight of him, she waved. Memories flooded his brain: how he'd craved her like a drug; the indescribable pain of her leaving; how he'd desperately clung to shreds of sanity while hoping she'd come back, and how she did – more times than he'd admit – only to abandon him once he'd surrendered again. In that moment, his heart realized – finally, reluctantly, accepting – loving her would always end that way. He managed a weary smile, then turned to walk away.

Love

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Exposition

  Love begins as the most perfect, pure thing in the whole world. Maybe in the entire universe. But, loving someone – even purely – is imperfect. Being loved by someone is imperfect. Doubt creeps in, weaving through every thought and action; playing tricks on the mind. Its shadow gathers – unnoticed, at first – ‘til trust and affection are obscured in darkness; strangled in a shroud of gloom.
  Once tarnished – its purity sullied – that perfection is lost forever. And, while love may be discovered again – may be tried and treasured – the heart knows its flaws. Still, despite contamination, our hearts long for love again.

Two Haiku

By Bud Koenemund

How Long?

How long does it take
to identify a face
you know like your own?


Forever

Someone tell my heart
Forever is a long time.
It won’t heed my brain.

White Claw Lies (a song)

Lyrics by Bud Koenemund
Music (to be determined)

For Jenna

I can’t help but answer when she calls.
I know what she wants, but I can’t resist;
she begs, and pleads to come over,
and my ever hopeful heart will insist.
I’ll enjoy the trace of watermelon
still lingering on her soft lips,
and the intoxicating way that demon
drink makes her swing those hips.

[Chorus] Her coming here throws gas on embers that never burned out;
               But, I can’t blame her. We both know it’s my flaw;
               Re-igniting flames that’ll only warm one of us.
               No, it ain’t the whiskey I’m singing about;
               it’s not beer, gin, or even that damned tequila;
               it’s her White Claw lies that’ll leave me a mess.

I don’t know how many she’s had, but
she’ll be mine again, for a little while.
I oughta say no; be strong and save myself,
but my strength fades every time I see that smile.
There’s no doubt it’s a mistake to let her in.
But, her arms wrap around me as she floats through the door,
and, in an instant, I’m all hers again
before her pretty sundress even hits the floor.

[Chorus]

She’ll fulfill the promises she made on the street;
driving me wild, and messin’ up my sheets.
But, momentary happiness only leads to sorrow
when, it’s no surprise, she’s gone tomorrow.
She’ll slip away before the sun comes up;
leaving me all alone, and beggin’,
knowing I shouldn’t have believed her,
after those White Claw lies fooled me again.

[Chorus]

I can’t help but answer when she calls…

Last Day

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  I had to see you walk away. Of course. Fate wouldn’t let me simply go about my day… and you’d just be gone… and I could ignore your absence. My eye was drawn to you like a firefly’s light in the darkness, while memory replayed moments you hurt me.
  We said goodbye already – more than a year ago. I, a fool who thought we’d parted friends, telling you, “I just want you to be happy,” only to find out later how badly trust was misplaced.
  I’ll endure one more dagger to the heart. Luckily, there’s nothing left to cut out.

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.

Modern Muse

 By Bud Koenemund

Each time my phone “dings,”
my heart hopes that it is you.
My mind knows it’s not.

The Deepest Wounds

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  I don’t hate you for breaking my heart. In truth, I expected it; waited for “the bomb” to drop right from day one. It’s the story of my life, really; I’m used to it. But, I didn’t expect to be stabbed in the back… the blade killing trust and affection in one thrust.
  Sadly, the deepest wounds are inflicted by those held in closest confidence. Despite the danger, we let them in – even provide them with the weapon – and turn a blind eye to the risk. And, as love bleeds out, animosity and the rot of indifference corrupts the soul.

Helpless

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

For Lindsay

  Her heart raced as he tightened the steel handcuffs on her wrists. His fingertips brushed over bare flesh, tracing upward along her spine. Leaning back against the wall, he pulled her to him, and wrapped his strong arms around her. Her eyes went wide as his left hand clutched her throat, cutting off her breath. She was helpless, though not at all afraid of being so… not with him. For several moments, his right hand rested between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat; then drifted downward, across her stomach. He kissed the back of her neck as she melted into him.

Six Haiku (August 2020 - March 2021)

By Bud Koenemund

Light
Your surreptitious

wave; an incandescent light

in a dreary day.

Declaration
I declare my love
to thee, for I know no way
but all or nothing.

Protection
I offer my heart,
and pray you will protect it
as I protect yours.

Duality
I’m the romantic
type who’ll write you sonnets; then
tie you to the bed.

Longing
I long to feel our
fingers intertwined, and hearts
racing as love grows.

Paradox
Slow motion woman,
you stimulate my senses
and quicken my heart.

Sweet Nothings

Blessed New Life

A poem to celebrate the late birth of Rebecca Lynn Koenemund:

Lady of Union, Princess of Wilshire, and Empress of Pomona.

By Bud Koenemund: Uncle, Godfather, and Lord Protector of Her Majesty’s northern possessions.

(Written: 2006)

A dawn of golden dreams spills over us,

blinding our thankful eyes with tears of joy

as Nature’s majestic sunrise,

the blessed renewal of life’s promise,

melts the winter snow leaving a new spring.

A child to tempt the voices of Angels

to sing sweet songs of hallelujah

peeks out as we, being but mortal,

stain our cheeks for lack of words

to give worthy praise for this Grace.

Reverent prayers, answered with a precious gift,

now become humble pleas for the strength

of heart to prove worthy of this perfect child.

Each seeking only to provide a lifetime of peace

and protection from the sting of worldly woe,

to love unconditionally, to cheer the smallest victory,

and soothe after the most devastating of defeats,

to teach, and quench the thirst for enlightenment,

and to celebrate the brilliant splashes of paint

that create a masterpiece from a blank canvas.

This pure soul, innocent and celestial,

brought forth in love, enters and prepares to play

the many unknown parts meant for a life.

Pink fingers, the instruments whose talent

God will reveal in his time, reach out

to grasp at nothing, and everything.

And newly opened eyes search to discover

a world both fascinating and frightening,

full of wonder, and then, reluctantly, close

to float within the first beautiful dreams of life.

Schrödinger’s Dickens

By Bud Koenemund

  It began innocently enough. 0300 on a Sunday, and I’m awake, tossing and turning in my bed. Finally, I decide it’s a good time for a bit of Spring cleaning in my office. I’ve been writing a lot lately, and things have slipped through the cracks. I need to do some filing, and I am gradually losing the eternal war on dust.

  I trudge down to my basement office, open The iTunes to play some music, and begin cleaning and straightening. I file, I shred, I wipe, I pick up a photograph of my niece that needs to go in a frame. Moving to the chiffarobe in the alcove, I pull open the door…and there it sits: Schrödinger’s Dickens.

  Physicists, and fans of The Big Bang Theory, are familiar with Erwin Schrödinger’s proposed thought experiment involving a cat, a box, and a flask of poison – even if on only the most rudimentary level. But, precious few are aware of Schrödinger’s Dickens. The box has been replaced by a padded UPS Express envelope; the cat by a book, and the poison by something far more deadly – memory.

  Truth be told, however, this isn’t about Schrödinger, or Dickens, or chiffarobes. In the end, it’s about a woman, the man who loved her, and the madness that still haunts him.

  In May 2013, out of the blue, “Her” sent me an armful of books once owned by her grandmother. Old stuff; rare stuff; stuff one could not easily find outside well-tended family collections. When I asked why, she told me she didn’t have room to store them. I offered to act as curator, and foster them until she had the required space.

  “You don’t want them?” she asked.

  “Il mio respiro,” I insisted, “I don’t want your grandmother’s books. I want your grandmother’s granddaughter.”

  I’d been in love – an unrequited love – with “Her” for 15 years, and we were in one of the half-dozen or so periods when she’d return to my life after a long absence, and let me think I had a chance with her; that this time she’d feel the same way about me. She’d re-appeared more than a year earlier, we talked, and e-mailed, and texted, and I quickly handed her my heart…again. To be honest, although she’d nearly killed me several times, I’d never fallen out of love with her.

  We discussed the books she’d sent. She mentioned her grandmother also had a first edition signed by Charles Dickens. I told her it would probably be worth a ton of money. And, I joked that I’d be happy to hold on to it as well. She laughed, and we never talked about it again.

  It’s been nearly two years since I last spoke to her; 18 months since I’ve responded to her in any way. I realized – actually, I simply finally accepted – that she was lying to me, again. So, except for the Christmas gift I sent that year, I stopped communicating with her.

  I know what you’re thinking. “What an idiot!” “Why would you send her a Christmas gift?” Well, months earlier, I’d gone far out of my way for her – to get a unique and almost ungettable gift – asking the quarterback of her favorite NFL team – a guy who rarely signs autographs, even for little kids – to sign a football for her. And, in my own defense, I hate that team with the fire of a thousand suns. I didn’t want the ball in my house.

  Just before Christmas, I received the aforementioned shipping envelope. It was easy to tell it contained a book. I knew I wasn’t going to open the package, so I put it in a red plastic Coca-Cola crate on a shelf in the chiffarobe, and tried to forget about it – to the extent I ever forget about anything related to “Her.”

  But, as so often happens, thoughts percolated in my fevered brain: Did she send me the Dickens? I mean, did she think a book would soothe my pain? Or, perhaps it was merely meant to repay me for the autograph beyond hope. Those questions remain unanswered.

  Even after all this time, I still receive the occasional text message from her, and cards on my birthday and Christmas. I don’t open them, or respond. I place them in the crate, along with other assorted “Her” memorabilia – photographs, letters, a lock of hair she cut off in a bar not long after we met in 1998, a stone I picked up at the New York Renaissance Faire the day we went together, and a Sea Otter Beanie Baby she handed me in the middle of a deserted street.

  That’s where my Schrödinger lives – the envelope resting atop reminders of my wasted love – lurking in the dark; waiting to release the poison. In the same way the cat is simultaneously alive and dead, it both contains and does not contain a signed, first edition of Dickens’ work. Unless I open it, I’ll never be sure.

  If I were smart – please, no comments from the peanut gallery – I’d delete the voice mails and texts on my phone. And, I’d toss that crate in the garbage. Problem solved! In one fell swoop there would be fewer things lying about to surprise me with memories.

  Of course, if I do that, I might be throwing away a treasure; something inherently valuable – in a monetary sense, yes – but in a broader sense, a piece of history; of art; something truly irreplaceable. And, if I opened it to avoid doing that – and the cat is alive – I’m harboring one more thing that reminds me of “Her.”

  There’s the rub. The paradox – my paradox – is that whether or not a particular book is there, thinking about it – like any of a million other things – makes me think about “Her,” which exposes a terrible truth: like that cat, I am both alive and dead…and my office still needs to be dusted.

A Quartet of Haiku for NaPoWriMo 2015

By Bud Koenemund

Recalled to Life

For “Her.”

My heart will not beat

again, ‘til your lips touch mine,

and renew my life.

Anticipation

For Val

Whispered words enflame;

clutching; fingers caressing;

hot breath on my skin…

Wonders

For “Her.”

She was a black hole;

ripping apart my whole world

to reveal wonders.

New Worlds

For “Her.”

Like the big bang, she

exploded within my mind;

creating new worlds.

Muse Rejoined - A Haiku for NaPoWriMo

By Bud Koenemund

Muse Rejoined

For TK

Would'st thou write for me?

Confess thy heart, and make me
a muse to a muse.

Where There's Smoke... - A Haiku for NaPoWriMo

By Bud Koenemund

Where There's Smoke...

Many muses spark

my words. Requite my love, and

you'll ignite my heart.

Seasons - A Haiku for NaPoWriMo

By Bud Koenemund

Seasons

For TK

My heart and mind war;

despairing that sweetest spring
can't postpone my fall.

Any Muse in a Storm?

By Bud Koenemund

Any Muse in a Storm?

For Kitty Boyce

If thou think'st I

offer my heart to each muse,
thou art mistaken.