The Green-Eyed Girl and the Supermoon

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

The green-eyed girl, like some ethereal
Being, gliding, ghostly in the moonlight,
Guided him across the sand. The feel
Of her hand, warm and soft in his, delighting
Every sense, while his intellect failed;
Yielding all to love, lust, and lunacy.
Reaching the water, she turned, her face veiled
In shadow, and kissed his lips eagerly.
His arms enveloped her, pulling her close –
A beauty, wondrous, to rival that bright
Body celestial – Nature’s awe exposed;
In sky and on earth, a heavenly sight.
   But, like all dreams, this vision could not stay;
   On waking, fantasy faded away.

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.

Command Performance

By Bud Koenemund

Just a bit of silliness, really; for D.

O, would-be muse, with skin brown and creamy;
Commanding a little song all your own –
Verses at once poetic and steamy –
While the taste of thy kiss remains unknown.
Shall my pen toil at your beck and call?
Pray, what recompense will this effort gain?
Wilt thou sate these appetites after all?
I do entreat some pleasure for this pain.
Must I rely on fantasy alone
To enkindle such creative fires;
When amorous thoughts leave me all undone,
As I expound on lust and desire?
   Should my words of praise not garner some fee;
   Or, as art for art’s sake, be rendered free?

Heaven Help Me

By Bud Koenemund

(Written: January 2021)

Heaven help me, I get lost in your eyes;
My mind enchanted by those circled orbs –
A maelstrom of fantasy spinning – while sighs
Escape from lips longing to kiss yours.
Oh, I must confess, too many waking
Thoughts are consumed by daydreams; my focus
Struggling ‘gainst grace; Reason’s forsaken,
Abandoned to a barely disguised lust.
Yet, even this concupiscence is pure –
A respect undimmed by base desire –
And my heart requires no other cure
But passion, for which I’ll risk Hell’s fire.
   I do revel in thy beauty endued;
   Treasuring ev’ry moment spent with you.

I Make No Secret of My Desire

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

My mind, Lady, I do confess, is filled –
Both awake and in slumber – with fantasies;
Visions erotic from morn through star gilt
Night – illusions bending sanity
Toward madness – dreams that, while wanton, reveal
Subconscious adoration. This lust bears
Certain truth; passion cannot be concealed
For one with whom only Venus compares.
I make no secret of my desire;
A longing, concupiscent to be sure;
Yet, in faith, ‘tis zeal tempered by fire;
Sin purged through the flames, leaving purity.
   But, will transgression be called blasphemy,
   When praising a Goddess in ecstasy?

Madness and Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." - John Keats

I hold your memory against my will;

Sentiment which imperils sanity

When every thought and dream reminds me still

Of the fool who gave devotion blindly.

But, this world won’t stop for a broken heart.

Indifferent to pain, both moon and sun

Rise, shine, then retire without regard;

Beg heaven for pity, you’ll receive none.

These things I desire can never be

Real. Love, fidelity lasting past death –

Blessed by madness and muse – is fantasy;

Affection shrouded in the dragon’s breath.

   Misery, it seems, lives joy’s companion;

   Torment entwined with beauty and passion.

Angry Muses

By Bud Koenemund

I fear the Muses have abandoned me;

Withdrawing with them that inspiration

Given so freely when I praised beauty

And love in songs of foolish emotion.

The cause ignored, those Nine of myth recede

In solidarity with their sister;

Mortal, though no less capable to breed

Lyric – a tenth goddess whose whispers stir.

This penance – punishment for protecting

My heart – has crippled both rhythm and rhyme;

As words wither, a poet disaffects

Life sans verses gifted past midnight’s chime.

   Her voice has faded from my memory,

   While creation crumbles in fantasy.

Mediocre White Male Poet Entitlement

By Bud Koenemund

For Shaindel Beers

Peril awaits mediocre white males –

Objection breeds cries of entitlement.

Trapped betwixt love and refusal they flail –

In quicksand, struggle speeds envelopment.

Risk and uncertainty oft’ herald pain;

Attraction devolving in enmity.

Wounded, “nice guys” lash out, although they feign

Indifference, voicing their misery.

Sadly, it appears fantasy is dead,

And life doesn’t end like a fairy tale –

No Beauty transforming this Beast. Instead

Happily ever after remains veiled.

   Words diminish, vanishing in chatter;

   E’en as we protest: all poets matter!

You Are Not My Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You are not my muse. She is one perfect –

A luminous goddess personified;

Bearer of soul and spirit sans defect,

And beauty I long to immortalize.

The words oft’ spin with Mercurian speed,

While verses roll easily off my tongue;

Her grace worth every drop of ink I bleed

To revere an angel from heaven sprung.

But, that Being is no more than a ghost;

Or perhaps some fantasy existing

Only in my mind; another dream lost

Come daylight, despite the heart’s insisting.

   When love has choked a fool with eloquence,

   Art quickly sputters to incoherence.

Lust and Love are Alike Attired

By Bud Koenemund

Desire burns hot, torturing my mind
With visions of two becoming one flesh;
Fantasies of your skin pressed against mine,
And endearments lost as we fight for breath.
Surrender to me, and our bodies will
Melt together in the dragon’s fire;
Embracing sin, and ecstasy fulfilled,
As toward the little death we aspire.
Lady, please pardon my vulgarity,
For I lack the pretty prose required
To spark passion. Though ‘tis absurdity,
So oft’ lust and love are alike attired.
   I seek not by words to mislead your heart,
   Offering only truth disguised as art.

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.