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.

The Promise

By Bud Koenemund

A 100-word story

  Emilia entered the hall with a regal air, as if she were a queen granting an audience. The crowd hushed, stunned by her magnificence, then filled the room with murmurs, and discreet pleas for favor. Her dark, olive skin glistened; her smile painted blood red.

  Recognizing the shade, Will frowned. A week before, she’d deserted his bed before dawn – leaving behind a pair of lip prints; one on his stubbled cheek, the other inside and below his left hip bone.

  “You didn’t say goodbye,” he grumbled, when she approached.

  “I will tomorrow,” she returned, with a surreptitious wink. “I promise.”

Routine

  He washed away the excess shaving cream, rubbing his fingers together under the weak stream of hot water. His father had tried to teach him, of course.

  "You only need a little bit," he'd said. "It goes a long way."

  It'd been foam back then; not the expensive, moisturizing, sensitive skin care, cocoa butter-infused gel he slathered on now.

  This stuff was supposed to help his complexion, or so the writing on the side of the can promised. In truth, it only served to remind him of what William Shakespeare writes in Henry V: "The elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more, spoil upon my face."

  At 44, he'd been shaving for 25 years.

  "More than that," he sighed. "Closer to 30."

  In all the days of his eclectic, though admittedly incomplete, education, he'd somehow missed learning about Newton's law regarding the dynamics of gel expansion, of that he was sure.

  He still used too much. Well, if he hadn't figured it out by now…

  He looked in the mirror as the remains of the glycerin goop slipped down the drain. The blue eyes looked the same – his vision the only part of him, it seemed, not yet compromised by age. The face itself had changed; the skin looser; he had a wrinkle or three, and a couple old scars.

  Raising his glance, he again read the two quotes he'd long ago taped at the top of the glass – one a Latin phrase, the other he'd read in a Tom Clancy book.

  "Memento mori;" Remember you will die. He'd intended it as a motivational tool; to make him write by reminding him his time on this planet is limited.

  Each morning, it made him feel guilty when he thought about how little he'd accomplished the day before. And, too frequently, it elicited an empty promise to do more today.

  He noticed the slowly increasing number of gray hairs on the sides of his head…and the quickly decreasing number of hairs on top of it.

  Shades of gray, he thought.

  "Today you can be a man of honor; or you can not," the second quote read.

  It wasn't that easy, he knew. When he was young, everything had been simple. To a kid it's all black and white; good and bad. You're either G.I. Joe or Cobra; cowboy or Indian.

  But, a man's world is full of grays – colors that had to be dealt with, and consequences to be endured. Decisions often had to be made without the luxury of experience or knowledge. Best possible choices made in a moment, and years of memories lived with.

  Is this what it means to be a man? he thought, making the first pass with his razor. To struggle forward, while always dwelling on the mistakes of the past; trying to accept things that can't be changed.

A Simple Word Too Easily Said

A sonnet for Kristen Brownell

Lord, how can so small a word cause such pain?
Indeed, the gift becomes too abstract when
Words, easily said, fall like drops of rain
On the ocean, and fool even wise men;
Oh, how the promises the heart believes,
When it dares to hope, break upon the rocks
Of high speech – but feelings only conceived –
Then sink down into the depths of self-mock;
Verses and oaths so quickly lose their worth
When once solemn pledges become dilute
Through casual repetition and dearth
Of the emotion real and absolute.
Even sweet words, spoke too oft’, turn sour,
And kill the root of this precious flower.