A Fly on the Wall at Trump Headquarters

By Bud Koenemund

  I would love to sit in on a ManChild Trump campaign strategy meeting. I’d be fascinated to learn if the word “no” is ever spoken. Is anyone brave enough to advise MCT this or that stance might not be wise, since he voiced the opposite position just weeks or months before? Does anyone attempt to deliver gentle reminders that the Internet exists, and anything said will be fact checked seconds after it leaves his mouth?

  Or, does his staff chase after MCT like Mr. Salt following Veruca around the chocolate factory; afraid he’ll throw a tantrum, or threaten to tell mommy; sulk, or hold his breath until he gets his way? Do they simply creep around the halls, and cower behind their desks, waiting (as a friend recently posited) for the big payday if MCT wins?

  I wonder if campaign headquarters resembles The Ministry of Truth in Nineteen Eighty-Four. Minion who could work out the truth if they dared to think, silently following orders; dutifully typing up the latest pronouncements of their infallible leader lest they be hauled off to Room 101 of MCT Tower and clamped in whatever torture device haunts their nightmares. “Last week we were at war with Eastasia, but this week we’re fighting to protect the LGBTQ community…well, OK.”

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.