Dollars and Sense

By Bud Koenemund

Some will deny facts; refute evidence;
Censure prophets whose message fuels outrage;
Ignore inevitable consequence;
In defiance of danger disengage;
Celebrate dividend distributions
Over the desiccated bones of Earth,
And trumpet their only contribution:
Endlessly monetizing nature’s worth;
Squeezing every dollar from land and sea;
Placing short-term profit ‘bove common weal;
Assuming no blame for the bill they’ll leave:
A world’s future condemned without appeal.
   Disbelief does not make science untrue,
   But will compound the penalties accrued.

It's Mine, and I Can Touch it if I Want

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Pain is the cost of living, and mem’ry
Its tithe; images – good and bad – that dwell
To merge art with a mind in jeopardy;
Risking yet another descent toward Hell.
Like any addict, I’ll never be free
Of thy damned compulsion; left forever
Trapped between slavery and liberty,
‘Til the mortal coil has been severed.
While my scars will linger, and the bruises –
An ugly, yellow-black – refuse to fade,
There is some profit when anguish ‘comes muse,
And, by genius is suffering repaid.
   There is truth in the misery that haunts:
   It’s mine, and I can touch it if I want.