Touch

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

The electricity of fingertips
Brushing ‘gainst my back creates a maelstrom
In the mind. Rationality is stripped
Away while intellect sputters – struck dumb.
What words can I use to describe your touch;
When every attempt, it seems, falls short;
Leaving language languishing as I clutch
At rhythm and rhymes? I give praise to court
Thy favor, but remain ever aware
Your hand is forbidden to mine; a fact
My brain accepts – though it flays the heart bare,
And sanity spirals in cataract.
   This verse can make no claim to innocence;
   Nor should be damned as mere concupiscence.

Revival

By Bud Koenemund

For New York City

Emerging from Mister Holland’s Tunnel,
I open the windows and take a deep
Breath, relishing City air in my lungs –
Savoring aromas as mem’ries creep
Through my mind, re-igniting the spirit.
I’ve missed this place; its electricity
Defying description – an infinite
Power source to fuel creativity.
Psychedelic allegory abounds;
Similes, like rain, stream off the rooftops,
O’erwhelming sense, as metaphors resound;
Echoing off every street and shop.
   I sing to celebrate my soul’s rebirth
   Here at the crossroads of the Universe.