Angry Muses

By Bud Koenemund

I fear the Muses have abandoned me;

Withdrawing with them that inspiration

Given so freely when I praised beauty

And love in songs of foolish emotion.

The cause ignored, those Nine of myth recede

In solidarity with their sister;

Mortal, though no less capable to breed

Lyric – a tenth goddess whose whispers stir.

This penance – punishment for protecting

My heart – has crippled both rhythm and rhyme;

As words wither, a poet disaffects

Life sans verses gifted past midnight’s chime.

   Her voice has faded from my memory,

   While creation crumbles in fantasy.

What Sweeter Song

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

How oft’ have I sworn my heart free of thy

Sway, only to dedicate another

Lyric in praise of hair, skin, nose, or eyes?

Indeed, such passion is hard to smother

When the midnight voice whisp’ring in my ear

Is always yours – a muse won’t be ignored.

Although I have lacked thy presence for years,

Mem’ry sustains the tempest in my core.

Lady, you have birthed ten thousand verses;

Every word a razor’s blade that cuts

While I fight ‘gainst myself – this art versus

Sanity. Obsessed? Admittedly. But,

   What sweeter song could I write than to pen

   Thy name forever, over and again?

All the Words Unwritten

By Bud Koenemund

All the words unwritten – whirling about
Inside my head, like a discordant storm
Of prolixity – threaten to drown out
Thought, and resist my attempts to transform
A handful from chaos to harmony.
They rattle and clatter around my skull,
Banging together precariously;
Roaring like a hurricane without lull.
But, when a few words tumble into place,
Coalescing to form rhythm and rhyme,
I oft' abandon slumber; embracing
The whisper of my muse past midnight's chime.
   Though my songs suffer form's captivity,
   Such limits arouse creativity.

Once Upon a Time...

For "Her."

Let’s sit and write a sonnet together,
Just you and I. I’ll pour some drinks and play
Songs that still remind me, while you whisper
Words which linger in my ears. I’ll obey
Your charge wistfully, quickening the quill
To flagellate my soul in equal parts
Healing and torture, as grief beyond will
Suffocates the love that once filled my heart;
Anon we’ll return to the past; a time
I knew, even then, was but a broken
Fairy tale, and at the bell’s midnight chime
I am left a knight without his maiden.
I'll fill this page with things I long to say,
For your magic oft’ fades ere light of day.