Surprise

Actually, it's only a little more than half. ;-)

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.

What's in a Name?

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Thy name, which I worshiped ‘bove all others –
Goddess of my idolatry – a prayer
Once whispered in reverence, has smothered
Piety, like a fire denied air.
Beauty exalted; enskied by angel’s
Voices; celebrated in the Heavens;
That word, so pure and sacred, now doth quell
My life, leaving a faithful soul riven.
And, even as fragments struggle toward light,
Betrayal drags me deeper into Hell,
Unleashing horrors; such harrowing sights
None, save perhaps Alighieri, can tell.
   “Her” – my Dark Lady – will as muse endure,
   Though ‘gainst deception I remain inured.

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.