28 December 2013


By Bud Koenemund

You never cease to amaze me. I wish I had your talent. – "Her."

O, what have I wrought which does not belong
To thee, when my fingers move but by thy
Influence? How can such passion be wrong,
When in every rhyme you stand ally?
While I'll fade as I measure out my life
With reams of paper and ink cartridges,
These words will live forever, and through strife
You'll own me: heart, soul, bone, and cartilage.
Lady, these little songs do testify
'Gainst talent. And, though I so often fail
At composing verses to glorify,
My words stand proof of devotion unveiled.
   What gift I may possess is truly thine,
   For thou art both my muse and love divine.

27 December 2013


By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I descend into the darkness slowly,
Reluctantly, for slumber provides no
Respite from the pain. I resist, knowing
My unconscious mind lacks the power to
Turn away visions of you, leaving me
Defenseless in the ether; foundering
In a dream of love that will never be
Real. I stand alone, chaos surrounding
Every thought; while doubt infects my brain,
All worldly cares slacken and madness raves.
Why must mem'ry continue to constrain,
Tempting a fragile spirit toward the grave?
   Sleep serves as no cure for this kind of tired,
   And my wit contends 'gainst death in the mire.

16 December 2013

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.