From Dust to Dust

By Bud Koenemund

Why would I fear something I have wished for,
Even tempted, nigh on 25 years?
What suffering exists beyond abhorred
Death’s veil that could eclipse pain endured here?
I should welcome an end to this torment –
The unceasing agony called life – which
Has left both intellect and body rent;
Bereft in spirit; with a soul of pitch.
Unafraid, I hold surrender not a sin;
I’ll embrace the darkness; finally
Set free from worldly struggles; whole again,
Someplace where these griefs no longer bind me.
   From dust, to dust, and thus a debt is paid
   When I, at last, am by the Reaper bade.

The Call Home

For Dan Masterson; poet, teacher, mentor, and friend

The call home comes far too soon for those left
Behind. Not unexpected, of course – we
Each owe God this debt – yet somehow bereft
Of any divine sense of poetry;
We'll stand in loose circles at the viewing,
Grim-faced and consoling, while holding hushed
Exchanges, listening to those who knew
Him well, and the students whose lives he touched;
"He was a good man," someone will say, and
Heads will bob to augment muttered consent.
"The best…gone too soon," they'll echo off hand
As their thoughts quickly turn to the present.
But, I am one whose mem'ry will linger,
Holding your words in my mind and fingers.