The Tears of a Clown

By Bud Koenemund

For Robin Williams

It seems those blessed in creativity
Are oft’ tortured as well by depression;
Demons who whisper so persuasively;
Tempting them e’er closer to destruction.
Though approbation may stave off despair,
It can grow strong, creeping in the shadows
Of the mind, while all remain unaware
Their well-meant compliments can ring hollow.
I can’t pretend to understand your pain,
Only empathize by comparison:
We each bear our own burdens; many chained
To fear and doubt; mocked by imperfection.
   O Captain! though words will pale ‘gainst sorrow;
   Despite tears, I’ll rise to seize tomorrow.

Suicidal Cure

By Bud Koenemund

My soul was not crushed by a single stone,
Nor drowned in the deluge of one tempest.
But, the weight of years alone has o'erthrown
My mind, and stripped the spirit to its rawest
Nerve. I am a man already dead –
Alive only in this physical form;
Left without rest, and many roads to tread;
Blindly groping for shelter from the storm.
Though I seek not a suicidal cure,
My first thought upon opening my eyes:
It's just another day I must endure,
Before I can finally lie down and die.
   I lack the light to vanquish this darkness,
   And, so must roam the wasteland of madness.

Two Sonnets in Eclectic Flash - September 2010

Two of my sonnets -- "A Simple Word Too Easily Said" and "Poets Never Really Die by Suicide" -- appeared in the September 2010 issue of Eclectic Flash, an online and print literary journal (eclecticflash.com/home.html).

Here is a link to the electronic version of the issue: http://issuu.com/eclecticflash/docs/vol_1_sep_2010?mode=embed&layout=http%3A%2F%2Fskin.issuu.com%2Fv%2Flight%2Flayout.xml&showFlipBtn=true

My works are on pages 13 and 40.

Enjoy.

Poets Never Really Die by Suicide

The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
– Ernest Hemingway

Poets never really die by suicide,
The sad victims of self-inflicted harm;
Though it’s often the cause the Times will cite,
In obits written while the body’s still warm;
They do not succumb to mere oven gas,
Single-car “accidents” on long, straight roads,
Exposure, starvation, or shotgun blasts;
Nor to drowning, slit wrists, or overdose;
Sadly, many fall long before they jump,
Or break their necks at the end of a rope;
They die when faith is lost and spirits slump;
When this mortal life leaves them without hope.
The cause of death need not be picked apart,
For poets only die of broken hearts.