The Modern Prometheus

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

What a fool I was to think you my muse!

Believing any mortal could possess

Such grace – a goddess divine; of virtue

Celestial, and spirit unsuppressed.

I swore by your imagined perfection;

Seeking to prove devotion with sonnets

Forged in the fever of self-delusion –

Earning instead shame I fear infinite.

And, like the modern Prometheus, ‘twas

Inevitable this creation would

Destroy my mind, leaving me to puzzle

O’er that emotion most misunderstood.

   Despite defect, my passion was no lie;

   But, love neglected will wither and die.

Lost in Translation

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I sought to place you on a pedestal –
Enskied – the sun candescent 'gainst my dark;
Thinking you a being celestial;
An angel igniting the divine spark.
Desiring to shield you from a world
Of slings and arrows aimed at sanity,
Leaves my soul craving grace as madness whirls –
Begging one kiss to void profanity.
This wish to protect never meant possess –
Locking you away in tallest towers.
And, though some fear by worship I obsess,
My heart aches on, praying passion will flower.
   Often by words emotion can augment,
   But love unrequited breeds discontent.

Talent

By Bud Koenemund

You never cease to amaze me. I wish I had your talent. – "Her."

O, what have I wrought which does not belong
To thee, when my fingers move but by thy
Influence? How can such passion be wrong,
When in every rhyme you stand ally?
While I'll fade as I measure out my life
With reams of paper and ink cartridges,
These words will live forever, and through strife
You'll own me: heart, soul, bone, and cartilage.
Lady, these little songs do testify
'Gainst talent. And, though I so often fail
At composing verses to glorify,
My words stand proof of devotion unveiled.
   What gift I may possess is truly thine,
   For thou art both my muse and love divine.

The Call Home

For Dan Masterson; poet, teacher, mentor, and friend

The call home comes far too soon for those left
Behind. Not unexpected, of course – we
Each owe God this debt – yet somehow bereft
Of any divine sense of poetry;
We'll stand in loose circles at the viewing,
Grim-faced and consoling, while holding hushed
Exchanges, listening to those who knew
Him well, and the students whose lives he touched;
"He was a good man," someone will say, and
Heads will bob to augment muttered consent.
"The best…gone too soon," they'll echo off hand
As their thoughts quickly turn to the present.
But, I am one whose mem'ry will linger,
Holding your words in my mind and fingers.