From Crush to Crushed (Part V): The Other Shoe

By Bud Koenemund

Right from our start, I knew how this would end:
The only way it can for guys like me…
Though I hoped ‘gainst hope passion could transcend
A past of loss – erasing misery –
Intellect recognized the bitter truth,
And shouted warnings which went unheeded;
Burying a soul in despair unsoothed,
When your turn pronounced my love unneeded.
Sadly, even if it’s true, “I never
Intended to hurt you” doesn’t lessen
This pain I feel. Those words wound forever
The heart a fool left in your possession.
   I composed verses praising her beauty,
   Unaware of how ugly she could be.

I Can Fly Again

 By Bud Koenemund

Holding your hand, by and by, I can fly
Again; soaring across the universe;
Whirling beyond galaxies; defying
Gravity; past forms Heavenly diverse.
Wonders surpassing words unfold ‘round me,
Bathing all in both darkness and fire.
Yet, it is your touch which sets my mind free
From restraint; thy beauty inspiring
Ethereal peace – a body at rest,
Even as this tempest of creation
Engulfs my brain: fantastic visions that test
The limits of imagination.
   Wakefulness brings torment, and so it seems
   I can find solace only in my dreams.

Divided

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

Lady; passion and intellect divide
Me. While attraction remains true, I know
Your youth, to my age, is rightly denied.
Like Summer’s bright blooms outshine Winter’s snow,
So doth beauty eclipse infirmity.
Nature favors one as others decline:
Fading steadily in obscurity;
The mortality to which all resign.
What can I do if desire’s forbid?
Only a fool would declare affection –
Exposing an emotion best left hid –
When silence affords certain protection.
   Love is safer wrapped in the guise of art,
   For speaking truth will surely break my heart.

A Goddess and the Sunset

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

(Photograph by Meshi - 2019)

The photograph shows radiance frozen

In time; a Goddess – like some Greek statue –

Contemplates sunset. Beauty in repose;

Veiled in twilight, her skin lit by subdued

Flame married to shadow as day and night

Meet. Aphrodite is reawakened;

A being celestial, burning bright

With fire only the stars can transcend.

Nature and Lady find harmony;

Their graces uniting to inspire art:

The image affords immortality,

While I tender verses writ from my heart.

   Muse; though these words are mine, thine is the praise;

   For ‘tis thy charm that sets my pen ablaze.

One Hundred Fifty-Four

By Bud Koenemund

For The Master Sonneteer

While others mock adherence to thy form,

The challenge kindles creativity.

Though I struggle, forging order from storms,

Effort is oft’ rewarded with beauty.

I may crow, during less humble moments,

But will be first to note equality

Is symbolic in this accomplishment;

Rightly measured solely by quantity,

Not quality. One hundred fifty-four

Little songs which dripped off tongues of muses;

Many doomed to be shunned, a few adored;

Each speaking the truth with passion infused.

   By Heaven, I pray this imitation,

   Weak as it is, will prove adoration.

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.

More Fool Than Poet

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

If poetry could amend my visage;

Its rhythm melt away a dozen years,

Allowing prose or rhyme power to bridge

The chasm twixt concupiscence and fear,

I would dedicate my verses for thee;

Endeavouring ever to coax your smile

With little songs proclaiming its beauty –

Confessions composed in a heart beguiled.

But, cursed by time, what words can I bestow

That might defy fortune and win thy kiss?

Lady; you make me more fool than poet;

Courting doom as age mocks my search for bliss.

   Oh, Muse; goddess of creativity;

   Thy grace shall achieve immortality.

Madness and Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." - John Keats

I hold your memory against my will;

Sentiment which imperils sanity

When every thought and dream reminds me still

Of the fool who gave devotion blindly.

But, this world won’t stop for a broken heart.

Indifferent to pain, both moon and sun

Rise, shine, then retire without regard;

Beg heaven for pity, you’ll receive none.

These things I desire can never be

Real. Love, fidelity lasting past death –

Blessed by madness and muse – is fantasy;

Affection shrouded in the dragon’s breath.

   Misery, it seems, lives joy’s companion;

   Torment entwined with beauty and passion.

The Brightness of Heaven Outshined

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

What power lies hidden in beauty’s eyes –

Enchanting and mysterious – to seize

My heart; kindling passion undisguised

By modesty? Could any galaxy’s

Stars counterfeit the radiance I find

In those orbs? O, even angels enskied

Must praise the brightness of heaven outshined;

Mere ash compared ‘gainst emeralds rarified.

But, time has cursed me to live in shadow,

Lacking the incandescence of your grace;

And yet, I will stumble forward unbowed,

Desiring thy kiss ere death’s embrace.

   While words can celebrate organs of sight,

   These verses pale in your eternal light.

Mediocre White Male Poet Entitlement

By Bud Koenemund

For Shaindel Beers

Peril awaits mediocre white males –

Objection breeds cries of entitlement.

Trapped betwixt love and refusal they flail –

In quicksand, struggle speeds envelopment.

Risk and uncertainty oft’ herald pain;

Attraction devolving in enmity.

Wounded, “nice guys” lash out, although they feign

Indifference, voicing their misery.

Sadly, it appears fantasy is dead,

And life doesn’t end like a fairy tale –

No Beauty transforming this Beast. Instead

Happily ever after remains veiled.

   Words diminish, vanishing in chatter;

   E’en as we protest: all poets matter!

Extant

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Exalting grace is a poet’s duty –

Offering words of praise to birth legend.

History abounds with these deeds; beauty

Glorified; in art forever blazoned.

‘Tis said Helen’s face launched a thousand ships;

That Juliet’s bright cheek would shame the stars,

And Aphrodite’s excellence eclipsed

All – ‘gainst whom even porcelain was marred.

But, I protest your fair is fairer still;

Possessing somehow a charm unsurpassed.

While unseen, your mem’ry abides, and will

Endure though millennia have elapsed.

   Immortality is not mine to grant;

   Yet, this and thee live on in love extant.

A Completely Sincere, and Hardly Creepy at all, Sonnet for a Young Woman I Barely Know

By Bud Koenemund

For L.

‘Tis difficult gazing into your eyes;
Their dusky beauty doth inhibit thought –
Scrambling cognition each time I spy
Those jellied orbs – leaving my brain o’erwrought.
Undeniably, the sight is pleasing,
And anticipated, ever bright’ning
The drear I daily struggle through; easing
By some degree my gloom, e’en lightening
The spirit. In truth, I should remain mute;
Appreciating thy loveliness from
Afar – knowing my age allows no suit.
But, ‘gainst this charge, my pen cannot stay dumb.
   And though by these words the heart is betrayed,
   I beg you accept this innocent praise.

Angel

Inspired by a work in progress by Mandee Alyson Clifton

O, how inconceivable is the soul
Knitted within my womb like fragile lace?
A blessing words cannot wholly extol;
An angel: sure proof of eternal grace.
My heart, once desolate, is now o'erfull
With love. I give my life to you – as yours
Was granted me – my belov'd jewel,
And pledge to ever protect and adore.
But, language falls short of the perfection
Thou art – forever failing thy beauty
In my eyes – and lacks honest expression
Of the long, bless'd life I wish for thee.
To be worthy of this gift, I will strive,
As my mother's prayers up to Heaven rise.

Will's Power

For the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust's Blogging Shakespeare Birthday Project - 23 April 2011
(www.happybirthdayshakespeare.com)

O for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest Heaven of invention...
- William Shakespeare, Henry V

Usually – though not always – it’s best to begin…well, at the beginning. The first Shakespeare I remember being exposed to was in my eighth grade English class. We read Romeo and Juliet out loud, in class. I hated it! Being a shy kid, I resented being made to read in front of the class. And, I’ll admit, I didn’t get much of what Will was saying.

After R&J, we read Macbeth. That was better. Witches and sword fights, ghosts and bloody murders, suicide and a severed head – that was cool. Though, again, I didn’t understand many of the words, and I was too young to appreciate the language Will used.

The first Shakespeare I ever truly understood was Henry V. In 1991, I was serving in the United States Army in the Republic of Panama. One afternoon – in between missions to the darkest jungles you can imagine and cutthroat games of Dungeons & Dragons – one of my roommates, Darryl Weeden, got his hands on a VHS copy of Kenneth Branagh's film adaptation of the play. Darryl all but forced us – our other two roommates and I – to watch it with him.

I enjoyed it right from the start: Canterbury’s intrigue; Hal’s response to the Dauphin’s gift; his speech when treason is discovered in his midst; the siege of Harfleur; all of it. What truly set the hook, however, was that speech. The one Hal delivered to his men right before the battle of Agincourt:

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. (4.3)

To borrow from Hal’s speech before the walls of Harfleur: Consider my sinews stiffened! Saying that I was blown away would be a gross understatement. The beauty of the language struck me. It wasn’t only what Hal said, but how he said it. The next day, I borrowed a copy of H5 from the base library and devoured it. That’s when my love of Shakespeare began. I read every play the library had. And, after I left the Army, I began buying my own copies of Will’s work.

These days, my Shakespeare collection rivals that of the local college library. I own three copies of the Complete Works, individual copies – in many cases multiple copies – of the plays and the sonnets, and numerous books about The Bard and his works.

In addition, I buy movie versions of every play I can get my hands on, and regularly attend stage productions of Will’s work performed by several theatre companies in and around New York City. Then, of course, there is the Shakespeare action figure, the Shakespeare bobblehead, the Shakespeare doll, the bottle of Shakesbeer, the skull…you see where I’m going here.

While I admire all of his works, Shakespeare’s Histories are my favorite plays. The jealousy, greed, and villainy; as well as the loyalty, bravery, and self-sacrifice portrayed in those 10 plays remains unmatched. Truthfully, is there a villain in literature better than Richard III? (One might make a strong case for Iago in Othello. But, did Iago have his own nephews killed? His own wife? Wait, ummm, scratch that last one, bad example!)

Of course, there are theories that Richard didn’t order the murders of the princes in the tower. Some think that King Henry VII (Richmond in Richard III) had them killed to strengthen his hold on the throne. And, that argument illuminates yet another way to appreciate these plays. As a student of history, I enjoy comparing Shakespeare’s version of events with that of the history books and the theorists.

Twenty years on, Henry V remains my absolute favorite play. I read it again every couple of years, I’ve seen three different stage versions, and I watch various film versions a few times each year. As I watch, I think about my roommates, and the other members of my unit. I think about how Darryl – the oldest of us; he was 24 and a fantastic artist serving in the Army to make enough money to attend art school – made us all watch the Branagh film, and how we were inspired. I think about how Shakespeare really got it right with those lines; how those guys, who I probably would’ve barely spoken to if I’d met them back “in the world,” became my brothers.

I laugh when I think about my adventures with those guys. Like the time 20 of us piled into a room to watch the animated dinosaur movie The Land Before Time. When an earthquake struck, and the baby dinosaur became separated from his mother, we – 20 trained soldiers; men who would kill with their bare hands, eat someone’s guts and ask for a second helping – had tears in our eyes. Though, none of us would ever admit to that.

I remember our “Pool Assaults;” a score of Infantrymen scaling the 10-foot high decorative concrete wall of the base pool in the middle of the night. We’d climb up to the 10-meter diving platform and all dive at once, then scurry back to the barracks, leaving a trail of water for the MPs to follow. Why? For no other reason than it was something to do. We were Infantrymen; we worked hard and played harder.

I think about the night my friend Ken Perkins cut open a Cyalume stick in an attempt to discover what made it glow in the dark. It spilled all over him when he split it open. He then proceeded to leave glowing hand and foot prints up and down the barracks hallway.

Or, I recall any of the dozens of other good times we had in spite of the heat and humidity, and between the push-ups, and the jungle, and the stuff I wish I could forget.

When Hal urges his men to the breach once more, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up because I’ve been in situations that required that kind of bravery and I have had such brothers beside me.

That is where Will’s power truly lies. Not only can he use language to take me somewhere I’ve never been – Agincourt, Dunsinane, Verona, or Cyprus, for example – he can also take me back to the places I have. His writing connects the then and the now, the character and the reader.

When Romeo first sees Juliet, I know how he feels because his words remind me of the first time I saw the woman who broke my heart. When Hamlet contemplates suicide, I can feel his anguish because I've had those same arguments with myself. And, in the epilogue to A Midsummer Night's Dream, when Puck begs for my applause – "Give me your hands if we be friends" – I give it to him. No, not because I am a "merry wanderer of the night," but because he and his fellows have bewitched me with their words; words given to them – and in many cases created out of thin air for them – by the author.

William Shakespeare did not make me a poet – it took the aforementioned broken heart to do that. But, he lit the path by showing me how to use words to translate my feelings, experiences, and dreams into language. Using his form – the sonnet – just felt natural. (And, though some will argue that adherence to any form stifles creativity, I contend that it challenges a poet to become all the more creative.)

So, from The Mad Sonneteer to The Master, happy birthday, Will. “To me, fair Friend, you can never be old,/ For as you were when first your eye I eyed/ Such seems your beauty still.” – Sonnet XIV

'Tis Sin to Write for Thee Perilous Beauty

For Jamey.

‘Tis sin to write for thee Perilous Beauty,
Praising hair infused with streaks of gold;
While to hold peace is the law and duty,
I here defy God, and so curse my soul;
When by convention I should be silent,
Denying my pen the words you inspire,
Your loveliness compels me to relent,
And thus celebrate eyes cut from sapphire;
In truth, I am a scoundrel to transgress
Upon sacred vows with mellifluent
Rhymes of lips and skin, though I must confess,
I blush at my guilt, but do not repent.
Accuse me not of mere concupiscence,
In faith, my love will serve as my defense.

Your Beauty Makes a Coward of My Tongue

For Erene.

Your beauty makes a coward of my tongue,
As if thy form has robbed me of my voice.
With Cupid’s blind-shot arrow am I stung,
Though, by my faith, I dote without a choice;
Your lips steal the very breath from my lungs
And drive my mind beyond the edge of sense.
By the heat of thy touch, is thought o’erwrung,
Yet, by that same palm, I crave indulgence;
While ‘tis sin to love thee, I’ll be brave still,
Praying such boldness overwhelms your heart.
Give me thy hand, if it should be thy will,
And I’ll stoke the fires of passion with art.
But speak my name and all I am is thine,
For with my pen I’ll praise thy love divine.

Damn'd Cupid has Forever Cursed Me

For "Her."

Damn’d Cupid has forever cursed me
To dote on imperfection’s perfection;
With my eye to admire her beauty,
While my heart bleeds, battered by rejection;
The Archer’s arrow easily pierced my breast,
Though she, to love’s wound, was proof’d it seems.
Now visions of joy have been smashed to dust,
And the failures suffered infect my dreams;
Am I thus condemned to crawl in darkness,
The blind victim in this malicious hoax;
Destined to be consumed by emptiness,
And forever doomed to pursue her ghost?
Oh, impious devil, pity my plight;
Release my heart that I may turn to light.