The Mad Sonneteer Muses Club

By Bud Koenemund

For my (many?) Muses

In truth, it’s a club rather exclusive –

Relative to, you might say, Madison

Square Garden; nigh a score of elusive

Muses. Plus a mad sonneteer undone

By words – admittedly a clumsy tool –

For he frights the hearts he would admire.

‘Tis an easy task: arousing a fool,

Immolating his soul upon the pyre

Of love, then leaving him to beg favor

While tilting vainly at the dragon lust.

Would not one reach out; becoming savior

To a poet, thus mending broken trust?

   Lady, forgive this proliferation;

   I swear, it could ne’er dilute affection.

Emerald Eyes

By Bud Koenemund

For C.

I write without hope of gaining favor,

As age precludes the assumption of grace.

Nonetheless, my pen must strive to honor

Beauty; praising the features of thy face

With homage forged in ink, not carv’d stone;

For what alabaster could not help turn

Obsidian when it your fairness shown?

Why even the silent fires that burn

Amidst the heavens daily shroud their flames

Once thy jeweled orbs ope to gaze upon

The world, for they outshine emeralds, and shame

Creatures made dreary by comparison.

   Though my art is oft’ begot in madness,

   I pray these words will prove balm to sadness.