Every Generation Remembers

By Bud Koenemund

For those who do not know peace.

Every generation forgets
Stories their fathers told; evoking horrors
Beyond the pale of humanity; debts
Recalled with cold sweat; mem’ries forever
Seared into their minds; invisible scars
Borne; never quite healing despite years passed.
This curse entices the young toward valor;
A supposed glory they think will last.
So, those terrible lessons must be learned
Again; steeped in blood, and death, and madness;
Where the dead are free, but survivors yearn
For solace: a peace they’ll never possess.
   Each age is destined to fan war’s embers:
   Every generation remembers.

Complicated

By Bud Koenemund

(Written: September 2020)

Though I may be thought a fool to reveal
Desire – once more exposing my mind
To misery; tearing scars barely healed
After injuries caused by one unkind –
My soul yearns for thee, regardless of chance!
Ignore the torment in our pasts, and stand
With me. Please forgive this awkward advance,
And, grant the honor of holding your hand.
I, here, offer love willingly, despite
Complications which life can oft’ present;
Endeavoring to make my heart respite
For thine, with affection incandescent.
   Through storms of time, this promise will endure:
   Always and forever in passion pure.

In Darkness You Will Discover Stars

By Bud Koenemund

For C.

The night of death falls hard upon the heart;

A sackcloth veil shrouding everything held

Dear; breeding grief while spirit breaks apart,

And sadness engulfs those places love dwells.

Lady, I bear similar injuries:

Numbed by depression time may never heal;

Self-doubt that taints both joy and misery;

Abandoned to sorrow without appeal.

But, through pain, loss can empower your soul.

The maelstrom which brings about destruction –

Surging memories whirling uncontrolled –

Could ignite a fire of creation.

   Breathe deep, and do not fear to show your scars;

   For in darkness you will discover stars.

The Scars Remain

No Good Deed

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

I never kept my attraction secret,

Rather, regard was too often laid bare.

Yet, I gave comfort, asking no credit,

And thy judgment censured a soul who cared.

Your rebuke, undeserv’d, cut deeply –

A jagged edge drawn, and kindness repaid

With crimson rivers – the wounds still seeping

As you reappeared, once more seeking aid.

How should I answer thee? Open my heart

To thy pleas despite these scars I carry;

When what remains is but the worser part

Of me, and better nature lies buried?

   Charity strives ‘gainst a spirit vanquished;

   For no good deed, they say, goes unpunished.

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.

Indelible

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

These little songs mock me; e’er taunting in
Ink indelible as the years wasted
Begging love; the shame tattooed on my skin –
A reminder of passion untasted.
My own words accuse, indicting my mind
For crimes unpardonable, and judgment
Is damned, as if fervor can be confined
To those requiting life’s sweetest torment.
While I cannot hope to avoid the sting
Of other’s ridicule, that anguish pales
‘Gainst the unending pain self-contempt brings
An ego stripped bare as sanity fails.
   Though the heart struggles on, forever seared,
   Scars left on the soul never disappear.

Broken

For Isabella Pontanares

Perhaps they're right when they call us broken;
When we so often risk sanity for
Love; leaving hearts exposed in this barren
World – yielding all to those we would adore.
Others' failure to see our scars cannot
Make us free of pain. In truth, we endure
A hurt deeper than blades can reach; a rot
Within – vile self-doubt, immune to cure.
Yet, as each breath begs surrender, we find
The strength to carry on; some ghostly hand
To pull us through in both body and mind.
'Tis certain time will become the glue, and
   Someday we'll be surprised to discover
   Our shattered pieces fit back together.