Hell

I Dare You!

A Love Letter in Haiku Form - For National Poetry Writing Month 2017

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

I

Oh, sweet green-eyed muse;

thy emerald beauty has

beguiled my pen.

II

What words could I use

to tempt your heart as you have

enchanted my own?

III

Would my feeble pleas

serve to entice elegance,

or prove me a fool?

IV

Desire cannot

be expressed in verse alone.

Still, the soul must speak.

V

While I lack talent

with speech, these tributes to thee

spring forth unimpaired.

VI

Though I fear the flames

lust has kindled will consume

me, passion rises.

VII

I long to enjoy

the touch of your lips ‘gainst mine –

a divine union.

VIII

I beg caresses;

to feel the warmth of your skin

under my fingers.

IX

I yearn to lay close,

our limbs entangled, as we

whisper endearments.

X

The sanctuary

I seek rests in your bosom;

exquisite solace.

XI

Lady, I live in

faint hope of someday holding

your soft hand in mine.

XII

These creations live

by thy inspiration, and

wither in neglect.

XIII

Though weak lines cannot

match your radiance, I pray

they will woo thy heart.

Want

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 word story

For Lindsay

  I want to push you against the wall, and mash my mouth against yours; kissing you until we’re both gasping for breath. I want to pull your hair, leaning your head back, exposing your delicate neck to my lips. I want your legs wrapped around me as I carry you to bed. I want to tear the clothes from your body as we fumble toward ecstasy. I want to stare into your eyes, and clutch your throat, as we fuck – not making love – each other into delirium until we collapse; sweaty and exhausted; our limbs entangled, as we whisper endearments.

A Fire Once Incandescent

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 word story

For Lindsay

  Rain pelted the umbrella spread above them. The droplets – furious and unrelenting – splattered against the black nylon, then joined in silver rivulets that ran over the edge to seek the ground. The couple, soaked from the knees down, huddled close as gusts of wind whipped along the gray concrete canyon, threatening their fragile shelter.

  Reaching the entrance of her building, they hesitated for a few moments, neither wanting to let go; each lamenting the drowning of a fire once incandescent. Recognizing her, the doorman fumbled his way into the maelstrom, extending his own umbrella, too late, as she ran past.

Yearning to Breathe Free

By Bud Koenemund

I'm an American. Usually, proudly so. Today, not so much. I was born here. My mother and father were born here. Their mothers and fathers were born here. Beyond that, my ancestors came here from other places; mostly from Germany, a bunch from Ireland, some from England and France, and one from Sweden. America is my home. It is my country. But, it is not mine alone! It belongs to all of us -- those who came here in the past, those who seek to come here now, and those who will come in the future! We are a nation built on immigration. That lady in New York harbor says, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free." I've read that plaque with my own eyes; there is no asterisk denoting "except for Syrians," or any other nationality.

Big Lies and Big Brother

By Bud Koenemund

  It's brilliant actually. The mainstream media tries to do their job; calling out lies, illustrating potential conflicts of interest, and exposing the past of his nominees. But he declares it "fake news," even while demanding the press do their job. Regrettably, the ignorant and The Deplorables blindly accept -- even rabidly parrot -- this.
  The only official news has become that spouted by Big Brother. The only truth is the "truth" from Big Brother. He threatens that contradiction will be punished. "Alternative facts" quickly become the norm. We are to pay no attention to what was said last week; the "truth" is what they say now. It is true, and has always been true.
  Joseph Goebbels would be proud, and George Orwell would be impressed.

One Step Back

A Haiku for Inauguration Day 2017
By Bud Koenemund

Inspired by Catherine Harren Barufaldi

One step back, is all;
The world only spins forward
because love trumps hate!

My Name is Bud, and I'm an Addict

I wrote this back in July, but didn't post it. Here you go.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi, my name is Bud, and I’m an addict.

On this date in 1998, I had my first hit of “Her.” Like some RomCom cliché, I saw her across a smoky back yard at an anniversary party. It was lust at first sight. And, when I got close enough to look in her eyes, I was in love.

We were so different – think Dharma and Greg – and yet meshed so well. She inspired so many words, and left me speechless. She filled my spirit even as she took away my breath. It was, I thought, what love was supposed to feel like.

Sadly, unlike in Hollywood, the boy didn’t get the girl. The boy got hurt over and over. He’d (in a manner of speaking) lose the girl, she’d go away for a while – sometimes years – and he would make strides toward healing. But again and again she’d return, and he’d fall under her spell once more. The boy is, admittedly, not very bright.

There were too many days when I didn’t care if I woke up in the morning. And, despite a fairly impressive collection of writing (quantity, if not quality) inspired by my first muse, I still wake up depressed that I have to drag myself through another day.

A few months ago, with the unwitting help of her latest boyfriend, I got clean. Of course, clean is a relative term. Like any addict, I know I’ll never be free of temptation. The danger of relapse lurks everywhere; in scores of songs and movies; in a thousand memories, and even in the words dripping from my own pen.

I’m better than I was, but I am still damaged. I am a junkie, and “Her” is my drug.

“I thought I knew what love was. What did I know? Those days are gone forever. I should just let ‘em go.”

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.”