The Girl in Those Sonnets

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Can a human really be that perfect?
One being inspiring creation
Of a hundred little songs; an object
Celestial deserving ovation?
May a sole muse supply myriad rhymes
Required to fuel so many quatrains
Pledging devotion ‘til the end of time;
Even if those poems are writ in vain?
I would not believe sans experience –
Bless’d with the maddening gift of words,
As if by some Heavenly existence,
Though denied return of my love absurd.
   "Her;" Dark Lady to a mad sonneteer:
   The genius I will forever hold dear.

My Own Worst Enemy

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Heaven knows why I continue to blame
You for my fragmented soul, when the fault
Lies with me alone. But, admitting shame
Achieves no solace – no peace to exalt –
When my thoughts constantly echo failure –
Real and imagined – poisoning present
Delight; making my own mind the jailer
Of happiness. I fear this discontent
Will grow, festering in obscurity;
Resistant to the healing love provides.
Neglect has sullied passion’s purity;
Cursing affection by excising pride.
   Memories of you leave my heart fallow,
   And forever proofed ‘gainst Cupid’s arrow.

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.