Wondrous and Magical

By Bud Koenemund

For E.

With apologies to William Shakespeare

I would compare thee to a summer’s day;
But, that one’s been done before, by better
Wit; and verses, I fear, are overplayed
When pretty words, more than actions, matter.
Though my muse could ne’er want for invention
While you, fairest of fair, do grace this earth,
My prose struggles to match inspiration –
A predicament oft’ a poet’s curse.
Be assured, I pray, these creations
Speak truth: exalting spirit unrivaled;
A soul soaring beyond comprehension,
And mind seeking the wondrous and magical.
   My willing labor is thy praise, Empress;
   To bestow immortality my quest.

Variations on a Theme

By Bud Koenemund

‘Tis true, I must confess, many of these
Little songs seem only variations
On a theme – rhythms, with rhymes meant to please
The eye: imperfect stabs at perfection.
Yet, what idea, save love, could entice
Such verse prolific; praise so inspired;
Promises of passion and sacrifice,
Whether facing Heaven or hellfire?
I do fear repetition may dampen
A heart’s assessment of sincerity;
Though that judgment will never lessen
Zeal; nor taint these musings with perversity.
   My form is rough; iambs full of defects;
   But, pray, let this not detract from respect.

Love: 1998 - 2016 (Part III: Insufficiency)

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

In truth, Muse, I dread thy inspiration;

The mid-night whisperings that tease my ear,

Once more igniting flames of obsession –

A passion undiminished despite years

Neglected; left smoldering and alone.

I must confess, ‘tis not thy tongue I fear,

And rather should embrace the songs you’ve sown –

Sacred melodies I alone can hear –

But, shame lives in my insufficiency:

Knowing mere words are unequal to your

Grace, and their praise oft’ falls short lyrically.

For this sin, thy pardon I do implore.

   These rhymes – unworthy of the page they stain –

   Serve as reminders of love never gained.

Passion as Penance

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Is inspiration truly worth my soul?

Enduring an eternity of pain

In exchange for rhymes which cannot console

A poet who pursues his muse in vain?

I wish, Dark Lady, I could say you are

Dead to me. Utter the words – and mean them –

As if my will would extinguish a star.

But, your light blazes, and lost love condemns

The mind; infecting slumber with visions

Of thy face; deceiving every sense;

Permitting the devil visitation:

An ambush sans corporeal presence.

   Your mem’ry lives, arousing emotion:

   Passion as penance to seed creation.

Fair Comparison to Things Enskied

By Bud Koenemund

For Melissa B.

What would you desire; words enchanting

Your heart, or igniting flames in thy soul?

I can wield them; create by descanting

Upon love and veiled lust with quill and scroll.

Inspired by a grace unseen, my pen

Takes flight, striving to reveal some small truth

With verse; granting immortality when

Thy mem’ry lives on in eternal youth.

Let those lips I long for whisper the tune,

And rhymes will flow praising sapphire eyes,

Brighter, by fancy, than the Sun and Moon –

But, fair comparison to things enskied.

   A new muse fires imagination,

   And I return songs of adulation.

The Girl in Those Sonnets

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Can a human really be that perfect?
One being inspiring creation
Of a hundred little songs; an object
Celestial deserving ovation?
May a sole muse supply myriad rhymes
Required to fuel so many quatrains
Pledging devotion ‘til the end of time;
Even if those poems are writ in vain?
I would not believe sans experience –
Bless’d with the maddening gift of words,
As if by some Heavenly existence,
Though denied return of my love absurd.
   "Her;" Dark Lady to a mad sonneteer:
   The genius I will forever hold dear.

Muse No More

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You were the brightest light in a Heaven
Of stars – one whose brilliance outlasted morn.
Thy invention made my garden Eden;
A paradise somehow fashioned of worn
Rhymes. Indeed, so oft' did thoughts of you guide
My pen, the world might presume you poet,
And I mere scrivener. Within thy eyes
Lived all my words, and in those words the debt
I'll e'er owe thee. But, deceit lay coiled
In this oasis – neglect at its side.
By one, trust will only molder to spoil;
By the other's poison, affection dies.
   Thy graces with quill I did long adore,
   Though, for want of truth, thou art muse no more.