27 October 2017


By Bud Koenemund

For C.

I’m weird? Pray tell, for writing little songs?
Articulating my feelings with verse?
While futile, would you call struggle wrong;
The offering of sentiment perverse?
But, I beg, remember, in days to come,
When thou art married, and bear two point three
Kids; suffering a man whose brain is numb;
Abiding ignorance, as love’s decreed
Through monosyllabic grunts; recall these
Scribblings fondly. Cherish those mem’ries
Awakened by words spun only to please
Your eye, with rhythm, and rhyme’s symmetry.
   Though there is strangeness in the proportions
   Of my mind, it feeds beauty’s expression.

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