Sun and Moon

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

Sonneteers are oft’ tempted to compare
Mortal muses with the Sun; an equation
Flawed, for beauty suffers in that glare;
Hindered both by glint, and prose overdone.
But, I, Shakespeare’s garish fire will shun;
Likening your loveliness to the Moon –
Luminous and gentle; a perfection
Inspiring invention; lunacy
Somehow granting focus to intellect;
Transforming this poet’s admiration,
As moonlight changes dark night; bedecking
All in rare magic – fueling creation.
   When day comes, I’ll carry you everywhere;
   Though I can’t see the Moon, you’re always there.

Inspiration in Desire

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

I fear, Lady, it lies not within my
Power to make you immortal through words
Spilled forth upon a page. Rhythm and rhyme
Fall too short ‘fore thy grace. Prose is absurd;
Found deficient ‘gainst the scope of beauty
Displayed both inside and out. Such discourse,
Oft’ repeated, will turn stale; a duty
Poets must embrace, lest their vows seem forced.
For thee, Muse, I am compelled to create;
Finding inspiration in desire –
A passion that may never be sated.
Yet, here, I strive to raise thy fame higher.
   Crafting true praise remains my endeavor;
   As I seek to make you live forever.

Orpheus and Eurydice

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

At first sight, beguiled by your beauty,
I became lost in imagination;
Creating art for you – not a duty;
Rather, some blessing of inspiration.
Through this privilege, I sought sacred words
That would enter your ears to captivate
Heart and soul, heedless of the cost incurred;
For passion made me a fool; prostrated
By indifference – over and again.
My mournful songs echo your absence,
While grief traps love in an underworld, straining
To hear footsteps; finding only silence.
   But, unlike the tragic story myth tells,
   With each look back, ‘tis I return to hell.

Every Generation Remembers

By Bud Koenemund

For those who do not know peace.

Every generation forgets
Stories their fathers told; evoking horrors
Beyond the pale of humanity; debts
Recalled with cold sweat; mem’ries forever
Seared into their minds; invisible scars
Borne; never quite healing despite years passed.
This curse entices the young toward valor;
A supposed glory they think will last.
So, those terrible lessons must be learned
Again; steeped in blood, and death, and madness;
Where the dead are free, but survivors yearn
For solace: a peace they’ll never possess.
   Each age is destined to fan war’s embers:
   Every generation remembers.

How Much of Me Must Burn?

By Bud Koenemund

For “Her.”

Heat endures, though I wonder if it’s worth
Fanning embers of a love that’s dying;
Going cold by neglect, and growing worse
When it seems I’m the only one trying
To rekindle those bright flames of passion –
Once incandescent – desire that burned
In our souls. Shall I accept affection
Will never revive? The respect I yearned
For denied, my heart glows on a pyre
Since your scorn; while what sanity remains
Is condemned to the maelstrom of Hell’s fire.
True, I offered all… and would again;
   Yet, a tragic question lurks in that storm:
   How much of me must burn to keep us warm?