Weird

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.