Sun and Moon

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

Sonneteers are oft’ tempted to compare
Mortal muses with the Sun; an equation
Flawed, for beauty suffers in that glare;
Hindered both by glint, and prose overdone.
But, I, Shakespeare’s garish fire will shun;
Likening your loveliness to the Moon –
Luminous and gentle; a perfection
Inspiring invention; lunacy
Somehow granting focus to intellect;
Transforming this poet’s admiration,
As moonlight changes dark night; bedecking
All in rare magic – fueling creation.
   When day comes, I’ll carry you everywhere;
   Though I can’t see the Moon, you’re always there.

Hunger

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

I’ll never again feign lust innocence;
Nor pretend my intentions remain pure.
Rather, I admit this concupiscence;
A heat impossible to endure
When both body and mind burn with desire.
I fear an inferno will engulf all;
Demanding ever more, as the fire
Blazes beyond control. I am enthralled –
My hunger increasing with ev’ry taste –
Being consumed, yet yearning further; the toll
A consequence eagerly embraced,
As I surrender my eternal soul.
   Your perfection would tempt angels toward sin,
   And bring devils back to the light again.

Fire Cannot Feed Upon Itself

By Bud Koenemund

With apologies to Galway Kinnell

Fire cannot feed upon itself. Lacking
Fuel to sustain, it will suffocate;
Dying away – light dwindling toward black –
As flames, once furious, quickly abate.
To make it burn, I threw my whole self in;
Sacrificing pride; nourishing our spark;
Then realized I could never kindle
Passion matching mine; that knowledge a stark
Reminder of the wasteland devotion
Leaves behind – solitude seared in my soul;
Scorched by incendiary emotion,
While embers, neglected too oft’, grow cold.
   The love extinguished cannot be renewed;
   Yet, memory smolders with thoughts of you.

I Can Fly Again

 By Bud Koenemund

Holding your hand, by and by, I can fly
Again; soaring across the universe;
Whirling beyond galaxies; defying
Gravity; past forms Heavenly diverse.
Wonders surpassing words unfold ‘round me,
Bathing all in both darkness and fire.
Yet, it is your touch which sets my mind free
From restraint; thy beauty inspiring
Ethereal peace – a body at rest,
Even as this tempest of creation
Engulfs my brain: fantastic visions that test
The limits of imagination.
   Wakefulness brings torment, and so it seems
   I can find solace only in my dreams.

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?

What's in a Name?

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Thy name, which I worshiped ‘bove all others –
Goddess of my idolatry – a prayer
Once whispered in reverence, has smothered
Piety, like a fire denied air.
Beauty exalted; enskied by angel’s
Voices; celebrated in the Heavens;
That word, so pure and sacred, now doth quell
My life, leaving a faithful soul riven.
And, even as fragments struggle toward light,
Betrayal drags me deeper into Hell,
Unleashing horrors; such harrowing sights
None, save perhaps Alighieri, can tell.
   “Her” – my Dark Lady – will as muse endure,
   Though ‘gainst deception I remain inured.

By Muse Gifted

By Bud Koenemund

How do poems arise if not by muse
Gifted? Bestowed upon the inspired
Like sparks flickering off a lighted fuse:
Prelude to a blast of creative fire.
But, where lies the line between flame and fuel?
Is there divide ‘twixt poet and Goddess;
Or are scribes indebted for each jewel
Conveyed through genius? And, while less modest
Egos, so often inflated by pride,
May out of hand reject this argument,
Their hubris will stand tribute to the tide
Of rhythm and rhyme Erato has lent.
   I can never repay thy influence;
   Nor suitably praise such mellifluence.

Valentine's Day

For "Her."

I pray your pardon this Valentine's Day,
For I purchased no card, nor roses red;
No pricey candies, nor Teddy bears; nay,
I make thee a solemn promise instead:
Time will ravage tokens of devotion;
No delight kindles once flowers are dead.
Stale cocoa will not long fire passion;
Nor pretty paper forgotten once read.
I fear, as years pass, plush toys do grow bald.
But, Dear Muse, my love shall remain undimmed
By ages; surviving beyond the pall
Of death, to be celebrated in hymns.
   This affect for thee outlasts holidays;
   It will e'er stand 'gainst wither and decay.

Deadly Sin

Am I not a mortal, born into sin;
An imperfect man, destined to transgress?
Shall I stand condemned for the beast within;
Tendering prayers entreating forgiveness?
No! I'll abandon virtue for thy kiss,
The warmth of your skin on my fingertips,
And whispers shrouded in the Dragon's mist –
Where carnal urges rise and reason slips.
Each time I see you, I long to confess
This fault; to admit the concupiscence
Burning through my body. Though, what blessing
Would that bring, when lust o'erwhelms innocence?
   Your touch alone can sate this desire,
   And damn my soul to the eternal fire.

Love and Hate

For "Her."

I didn't know – in truth, how could I have? –
That you'd always hate me for loving you;
Damning me for the devotion I gave
In words that fade now in my solitude.
I offered everything to feed the fire
Of passion you kindled, then crushed to ash;
Desperate not to let it expire,
Like dying embers swept into the trash.
A day will come when I love you no more;
When I stop hiding from a harsh truth veiled
By the shadows in my mind, and restore
Sanity, accepting my prayers have failed.
"I love you" seems the strongest thing I say:
It always pushes you farther away…

Il Mio Respiro

For "Her."

In truth, my words are writ by thy fingers.
Is it not you who first taught me to love;
Who enchanted me while my eyes lingered
On thine, and kindled a flame undreamt of?
What glory can be mine when the sound
Of your voice arouses my pen? O, spark
Imagination by thy touch; and compound
Thee little songs with kisses in the dark.
Lady, though I fear my desires blaspheme
Love, I pray by such devotion you know:
Your breath is my breath, your dreams are my dreams,
And your body houses my very soul.
O, Muse; O, Fire; O, living passion;
Thou art my bright heaven of invention.

Of Ice Cream, Laughter, and "Shakespeare in Love"

A fantasy in sonnet form.

For Kristen Brownell.

Fingers trace over secret paths explored –
Each curve and cleft now mapped in memory.
Kisses and whispers linger on lips, as your
Scent drifts on an air of avidity;
With the gravity of a dying sun
We pull together, two bodies aflame;
Our flesh – now fire and fuel – joins as one,
Surrendering to this lust without shame;
Fresh hunger drives us. We consume the world,
Yet desire more as the appetite seems
To increase; even while pleasures unfurl –
Pushing our passion to the verge of dream.
This madness grows with every ragged breath,
‘Til we are enskied by our little deaths.

The Ways That My Body Remembers Yours

For Amy Lynn Watkins

My lips remember the curve of your neck,
And my tongue recalls the taste of your skin.
My fingers can feel the warmth of your back,
And my ears hear you moan my name again;
Your wondrous perfume returns to my nose,
And your eyes penetrate…searching in mine.
When I think of the times I’ve held you close,
Each sense ignites a fire in my mind;
Our bodies entwined, melting together
In a warm and wet enveloping cloud,
Were caught in illusions of forever,
As lust wrapped us both in the Dragon’s shroud.
Muse, my passion demands that I explore
The ways that my body remembers yours.

To the Lady With Whom I Would Grow Old

For "Her."

To the Lady with whom I would grow old,
The beauty who owns my heart, I offer,
Faithful companionship as years unfold,
And countless days of loving none but her;
When in long counted years I reach four score,
It is your company that I desire;
To hold your hand and feel my spirit soar,
‘Til I go to Heaven, or to Hell’s fire;
In the march of time, sharp-edged lust will dull,
To be replaced by smoldering passion;
An enduring heat that permits no lull,
And that will serve to temper devotion.
My love and muse; my friend and guiding star;
The faith I hold in thee can ne’er be marred.