Wanton Ambling Nymphs

By Bud Koenemund

I fear perfect love is but fantasy;
A fiction dwelling solely in my brain;
Some trick of the mind’s creativity –
That domain where wanton ambling nymphs reign
O’er intellect; suffused by fairy tales
Oft’ ending happily ever after:
Though illusions inevitably fail
When affection’s nativity yields hurt.
These dreams ne’er align with reality,
As I awake confined in loneliness.
Yet, this despair does afford clarity –
A recognition of unworthiness.
   Time’s passage will prove no balm for my soul;
   I am left without cure to make me whole.

No More Desire for Light

By Bud Koenemund

I know one way to express devotion:
Offering my entire heart and soul –
Withholding nothing; risking emotion
Perilous; braving passion uncontrolled
By intellect. And, the cost has become
Too dear as torment strips vitality,
Inducing me to wish all feeling numbed –
Surrender slouching toward finality.
In truth, love has caused me nothing but pain.
Though, I doubt any revelation
Of zeal could bring joy when such unrestrained
Affection only invited destruction.
   I will feign no more desire for light;
   Leaving my soul abandoned and blighted.

From Crush to Crushed (Part VI): One Lie

By Bud Koenemund

“I just want you to be happy.” I lied.
The first, and only, one I told her;
After ruin inevitably denied
Those flames I fought to kindle – smoldering
Embers never reaching incandescence.
It’s bullshit. I know it. She knows it, too.
Still, it’s what you offer – at pride’s expense –
When there’s nothing else to say; naught to do.
Yet, even in this deception lives truth;
Despite betrayal, I cannot wish pain
On a soul once adored, but seek to soothe
Their conscience, while my own heart is constrained.
   I can’t pretend as if I didn’t care;
   Obliterating the affection dared.

From Crush to Crushed (Part IV): Idiot

By Bud Koenemund

"Everyone's heart is an idiot." - Thomas Paris

My heart, I fear, has played the fool again;
Deceived by lies; left inconsolable,
After desire o’re sense gained free reign,
And malice made passion disposable.
How many times can a heart survive
Being broken – shattered anew – before
Surrendering; refusing revival
Only to stumble on forever torn?
If everyone’s heart is an idiot,
Why seems it especially so with mine?
In the book of love found illiterate;
Destined to be alone by fate malign.
   Affection oft’ exacts a dreadful cost;
   Intellect is crushed and sanity lost.

From Crush to Crushed (Part I): Fooled

By Bud Koenemund

You fooled me into believing I could
Be worthy of love; a soul misled to
Think – despite previous defeats – this would
Work; that affection was given one who
Might finally requite the warmth received;
Mirroring my effort and devotion.
But, once more, this heart’s desire deceived
A mind vulnerable; lacking notions
Of treason; blind to prevarication.
Though intellect provided ample warning,
Enchantment deafened sense, and illusion
Grew quickly, obscuring misgivings.
   Reality killed my season of joy,
   And lies left behind a spirit destroyed.

Believe in Love Again

By Bud Koenemund

(Written: December 2020)

I will help you believe in love again;
Make thee feel adored and celebrated;
Safe enough to surrender; free of pain;
Sans sorrow; through my affection sated.
I’ll gather the pieces from your broken
Heart; combining them with such remaining
Parts of mine; building a fire which mends
Both – forged as one by passion unrestrained.
My soul’s quest shall be to make you smile;
Holding thy hand while healing the spirit.
Let not these flowery words beguile
Your eyes – those orbs I can never forget –
   But, trust in my actions, for they will prove
   This respect and devotion ‘ever true.

Affection's Embers

By Bud Koenemund

(Written: November 2020)

It may sound hyperbolic; cliché;
Or, like silly sentimentality;
But, when I see you, the Sun appears; its rays
Spreading warmth through my soul; a quantity
Of joy absent for decades; sparking light
In a spirit abandoned to darkness.
Your grace kindles desire and delight;
Arousing love lost in a wilderness,
Frozen near to death – now granted new life.
Dare I hope for ecstasy? While the head
Urges caution, my heart has forgot strife –
Seeking a future of passion instead.
   Despite the past, affection’s embers glow;
   Requite my care, and make this fire grow.

Stuck in the Middle With You

By Bud Koenemund

(Written: October 2020)

Every word I’ve written thee is true –
My passion sans deception. Be assured
This heart remains dedicated to you:
The affection pledged innocent and pure.
But, sometimes I feel lost; directionless;
Wanting guidance. Lacking thy confidence,
I’ll find myself in the same wilderness
Where, once upon a time, indifference
Starved this soul near death. Yet, Lady; I know
Your past and mine that way are kindred.
Though, in life, we have both paid heavy tolls,
I pray, together, love grows unimpeded.
   While insecurity conspires to
   Deceive, it cannot dim respect for you.

Complicated

By Bud Koenemund

(Written: September 2020)

Though I may be thought a fool to reveal
Desire – once more exposing my mind
To misery; tearing scars barely healed
After injuries caused by one unkind –
My soul yearns for thee, regardless of chance!
Ignore the torment in our pasts, and stand
With me. Please forgive this awkward advance,
And, grant the honor of holding your hand.
I, here, offer love willingly, despite
Complications which life can oft’ present;
Endeavoring to make my heart respite
For thine, with affection incandescent.
   Through storms of time, this promise will endure:
   Always and forever in passion pure.

Heart for Heart

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

My affection was never held secret;

Attraction confessed; with all its defects,

Sentiment lay exposed from the outset;

Unguarded; lust defeating intellect.

I offered self, desiring the same –

Heart for heart, hand for hand, and soul for soul;

Love enkindling passion without shame;

Intense spirits blazing beyond control.

But, yearning could not win respect, and pleas

Fell on ears deaf to solicitation.

Emotion withered, leaving me lonely,

As desolation replaced devotion.

   Despite intention pure, and honor sworn,

   Everything was too much to ask for.

Love: 1998 - 2016 (Part VI: Freedom)

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Shall a heart incandescent with love be

Consumed by hate? Must one choke the other –

Torment equaling passion’s quantity –

‘Til embers of desire are smothered;

Expiring sans wisp, ash, smoke, or rack –

Token corporeal to signify

Its extinction? Ignored, fervor turns black,

Eclipsing all that light once beautified.

Respect died in a doppelganger’s eye;

Could I not see myself mirrored in him?

Recalling what might have been magnified

My grief, but catharsis yielded freedom.

   Two decades lost can never be regained,

   Though affection lives again unconstrained.

Guilt

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

I stand guilty; entrapped in self-made plight.

Abandoned by fate, sans defense, I fear,

‘Gainst offenses for which I am indict:

Those of madman, lover, and sonneteer.

I did not think this fervor illicit –

Seeking favor by show of affection.

But, it seems my passion’s too explicit;

And heart’s at fault for miscalculation.

The crime? Infatuation. Foul sin? Lust.

Although I swear my intention was pure,

This imperfect world oft’ inhibits trust,

So your pen wrought the prison I endure.

   Though I’ll not carry this shame forever,

   I must lament the amity severed.

The Mad Sonneteer Muses Club

By Bud Koenemund

For my (many?) Muses

In truth, it’s a club rather exclusive –

Relative to, you might say, Madison

Square Garden; nigh a score of elusive

Muses. Plus a mad sonneteer undone

By words – admittedly a clumsy tool –

For he frights the hearts he would admire.

‘Tis an easy task: arousing a fool,

Immolating his soul upon the pyre

Of love, then leaving him to beg favor

While tilting vainly at the dragon lust.

Would not one reach out; becoming savior

To a poet, thus mending broken trust?

   Lady, forgive this proliferation;

   I swear, it could ne’er dilute affection.

Victim or Hypocrite

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

The ardor of my affection was pure
And true, but died slowly; pining away
In vain; enraptured by one insecure.
Now, time has granted freedom from thy sway;
Oaths once clad in shining armor rusted
Unseen, weakened by the rain of deceit
Drizzling off a tongue this fool trusted –
Cursing my heart to live on incomplete.
In faith, I know not if I stand victim
Or hypocrite – though I admit unwise –
For through the years I swore a love undimmed,
While neglect changed my promises to lies.
   Piety I thought immortal is dead,
   Leaving mind and sense tragically unwed.

I Pray Some Score of Words Writ by Thy Hand

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I pray some score of words writ by thy hand;

Endearments revealing themselves in curves

Of ink; sentiments render'd to stand

As perfect testament of love preferred.

I hunger for the mercy in thy kiss;

A solitary touch of lips 'gainst mine.

Or, the heat of your breath as you whisper

"I love you;" so claiming my heart as thine.

But, too often, Muse, I lack thy favour,

And my soul sickens denied sustenance –

It withers to dust sans one I adore;

Wishing recov'ry by thy maintenance.

   Do not allow doubt to flourish unchecked,

   Nor let this affection die by neglect.

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.

My Sorrow

“…I say we go and drown our sorrows.” – Amy Lynn Watkins, 10 June 2011

I suffer in affection for I know
You’ll never be mine. My heart lies fallow,
And prayers seem merely pleas to a shadow,
As love strains to endure the stings and blows
Of self-doubt that leave me like a scarecrow –
Outwardly a man, but inside hollow.
My spirit crumbles in a crescendo
Of pain, and hope is dashed on rocks below;
Though I have no right, I beg you, bestow
Thy favor upon me; thus sate a soul
T'will dare to love thee every tomorrow,
And so thrive forever in your sun’s glow.
While desire restrains my voice, I am woe
To confess, Lady, you are my sorrow.