Talent

By Bud Koenemund

You never cease to amaze me. I wish I had your talent. – "Her."

O, what have I wrought which does not belong
To thee, when my fingers move but by thy
Influence? How can such passion be wrong,
When in every rhyme you stand ally?
While I'll fade as I measure out my life
With reams of paper and ink cartridges,
These words will live forever, and through strife
You'll own me: heart, soul, bone, and cartilage.
Lady, these little songs do testify
'Gainst talent. And, though I so often fail
At composing verses to glorify,
My words stand proof of devotion unveiled.
   What gift I may possess is truly thine,
   For thou art both my muse and love divine.

Everything

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You are: my bravery, and greatest fear;
The thief of my voice, e'en as I sing these
Little songs in praise; the cause of each tear,
And ev'ry smile which follows; the keys
To free devotion, as well as its jail;
At once condemnation and redemption;
The void of despair into which I wail;
A muse of fire; Heaven of invention;
Each word my weak fingers manage to scratch
On paper; both sanity and madness;
My heart's desire, and soul's perfect match;
Fantasy, and nightmare; joy, and sadness;
   My strength, and weakness; the queen to a king.
   In truth, to me, Love, you are everything.

Teach My Fingers Words to Win Your Heart

For "Her."

How many sonnets must I pen before
You'll love me back? What number would you hold
As proof of devotion? Muse, I implore,
Grant me a gift valued higher than gold.
O, teach my fingers words to win your heart,
And I will abandon caution to make
The blood in my veins the ink for that art.
Give me your hand – let sweet affection wake
In thy eye and grow stronger in thy breast.
Demand your tribute, goddess, and despite
A poet's wit, I'll strive with every breath
To venerate you with the vows I write.
Lady, I beg thee, consent to be mine,
As I, by Heaven, am forever thine.

The Call Home

For Dan Masterson; poet, teacher, mentor, and friend

The call home comes far too soon for those left
Behind. Not unexpected, of course – we
Each owe God this debt – yet somehow bereft
Of any divine sense of poetry;
We'll stand in loose circles at the viewing,
Grim-faced and consoling, while holding hushed
Exchanges, listening to those who knew
Him well, and the students whose lives he touched;
"He was a good man," someone will say, and
Heads will bob to augment muttered consent.
"The best…gone too soon," they'll echo off hand
As their thoughts quickly turn to the present.
But, I am one whose mem'ry will linger,
Holding your words in my mind and fingers.