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.

Tempus Fugit

By Bud Koenemund

In consciousness rises the poet’s plight:

Cursed with knowing time is fleeting; slipping

Past; each moment another dying light;

As, from our birth, those flames are flickering.

Days lost become years; progressing quickly,

Faded and forgotten; surrendered to

Accelerating relativity,

‘Fore the call of skills neglected renews.

Imagination yearns for expression,

And – as this journey hastens toward its end –

A stab at immortality; Passion

Racing the doom we cannot comprehend.

   Crafting perfection is my endeavor;

   Some scrap of verse that will live forever.

Guilty in Silence

By Bud Koenemund

For Arthur H. Monigold

He told me not to tell, and I didn’t.

His own grandson – once untainted; trusting –

Protecting a monster whose sin imprints

The soul, poisoning innocence with lust;

Breeding this maelstrom raging through my brain:

Lightning strikes of emotion – wrath and shame;

Hate and self-doubt – a tempest unconstrained.

Yet, misery lurks darkest in that blame

I carry for silence. An accomplice

To evil; remaining mute as he forced

This curse upon others; rending solace

From family: a guilt beyond recourse.

   Though my flesh bears no scar, memory steals

   Peace with injuries time will never heal.

More Fool Than Poet

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

If poetry could amend my visage;

Its rhythm melt away a dozen years,

Allowing prose or rhyme power to bridge

The chasm twixt concupiscence and fear,

I would dedicate my verses for thee;

Endeavouring ever to coax your smile

With little songs proclaiming its beauty –

Confessions composed in a heart beguiled.

But, cursed by time, what words can I bestow

That might defy fortune and win thy kiss?

Lady; you make me more fool than poet;

Courting doom as age mocks my search for bliss.

   Oh, Muse; goddess of creativity;

   Thy grace shall achieve immortality.

Malice Aforethought

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Oh, what delight you must’ve taken each
Time you returned to strip my soul anew;
Dangling your heart ever beyond my reach,
While I, blind in love, couldn’t see the clues
Which might, perhaps, have spared me the malice
Swirling about your breast like a maelstrom;
Spewing words sharp as daggers, and callous
Deeds intended to leave sanity numb,
Even as I pledged renewed devotion.
But, the years of pain have taught a lesson,
Lifting thy enchantment – a curse broken –
And passion faded like mist in the sun.
   I won’t claim affection turned enmity;
   Rather, your spite has engendered pity.

Concupiscent

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I write so oft' of my respect for thee;
Assuring my heart's allegiance to thine –
A bosom prized above the air I breathe –
Begging thy hand; our fingers intertwined.
But, lust has o'erwhelmed thoughts of purity,
And desire craves thy touch on my skin,
While we mock the curse of avidity –
Two merged as one in consecrated sin.
Passion swells, demanding release boundless
As fantasy; yielding all; submitting
To nature, and each other; a guiltless
Surrender to hunger unremitting.
   Though I seek no grace for concupiscence,
   I pray my true love will pierce thy defense.

The Eye of a Hurricane

For Amy Lynn Watkins

A maelstrom of emotions torment me –
Love; hate; desire and desperation –
Infusing my thoughts with an energy
That breeds both destruction and creation.
Howling winds of insanity tear
My reason, and lash my mind with surges
Of doubt which leave my spirit in despair.
This tempest rages; wave and sky converge
In their fury, as I fear for my soul.
But, then I remember your eye, and take
Solace in the thought; for this peace unfolds
A haven ‘til the storm within me breaks.
Love has ever been both blessing and curse;
The sweet torture we suffer on this earth.

Damn'd Cupid has Forever Cursed Me

For "Her."

Damn’d Cupid has forever cursed me
To dote on imperfection’s perfection;
With my eye to admire her beauty,
While my heart bleeds, battered by rejection;
The Archer’s arrow easily pierced my breast,
Though she, to love’s wound, was proof’d it seems.
Now visions of joy have been smashed to dust,
And the failures suffered infect my dreams;
Am I thus condemned to crawl in darkness,
The blind victim in this malicious hoax;
Destined to be consumed by emptiness,
And forever doomed to pursue her ghost?
Oh, impious devil, pity my plight;
Release my heart that I may turn to light.

My Fault Lies Chiefly in Loving You Still

For "Her."

My fault lies chiefly in loving you still.
It casts a shadow over all I feel,
Clouding my mind, overwhelming my will,
And closing my heart in a tomb of steel;
This yearning is a malignant cancer,
Cut out time after time, but never cured.
Age only makes the failure grow larger,
Ensuring that my soul remains immured;
Memory serves to refresh my pain with cruel
Truth: I will never be free of this curse;
This defect will force me to play the fool
Until I draw my last breath on this Earth;
My splintered heart lives shrouded in darkness,
While my mind drifts further into madness.