Variations on a Theme

By Bud Koenemund

‘Tis true, I must confess, many of these
Little songs seem only variations
On a theme – rhythms, with rhymes meant to please
The eye: imperfect stabs at perfection.
Yet, what idea, save love, could entice
Such verse prolific; praise so inspired;
Promises of passion and sacrifice,
Whether facing Heaven or hellfire?
I do fear repetition may dampen
A heart’s assessment of sincerity;
Though that judgment will never lessen
Zeal; nor taint these musings with perversity.
   My form is rough; iambs full of defects;
   But, pray, let this not detract from respect.

One Hundred Fifty-Four

By Bud Koenemund

For The Master Sonneteer

While others mock adherence to thy form,

The challenge kindles creativity.

Though I struggle, forging order from storms,

Effort is oft’ rewarded with beauty.

I may crow, during less humble moments,

But will be first to note equality

Is symbolic in this accomplishment;

Rightly measured solely by quantity,

Not quality. One hundred fifty-four

Little songs which dripped off tongues of muses;

Many doomed to be shunned, a few adored;

Each speaking the truth with passion infused.

   By Heaven, I pray this imitation,

   Weak as it is, will prove adoration.

A Poet's Obligatory Ode to a Blank Sheet of Paper

By Bud Koenemund

At rest now, on desktop – yet, I reflect,
Not long ago part of a mighty tree –
Poised as canvas for form crafted perfect,
But oft’ revealing insufficiency.
Does it yearn, like the poet, to become
Great – an ode comparing a summer’s day;
Evening stops by snowy woods; or songs from
Lovers lamenting loss; a chance to gain
Immortality in some small measure?
When the muse speaks, and quill dances with page,
Mere words metamorphose into treasure.
A frenzied scribe ink alone can assuage,
   As they create worlds with paper and pen –
   Driving imagination beyond ken.

All the Words Unwritten

By Bud Koenemund

All the words unwritten – whirling about
Inside my head, like a discordant storm
Of prolixity – threaten to drown out
Thought, and resist my attempts to transform
A handful from chaos to harmony.
They rattle and clatter around my skull,
Banging together precariously;
Roaring like a hurricane without lull.
But, when a few words tumble into place,
Coalescing to form rhythm and rhyme,
I oft' abandon slumber; embracing
The whisper of my muse past midnight's chime.
   Though my songs suffer form's captivity,
   Such limits arouse creativity.

A Whiney Lament O'er Dying Form

No one wants to read love sonnets these days.
We’re busy following what Paris tweets,
And devouring each word Gaga says.
Why think, when you can “stream” while Snooki bleats?
Will writes, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
How accurate that is today seems sad,
As we gauge our success by total “hits;”
Courting fame on electronic doodads.
We prefer shock to awe – ignoring art
And substance in favor of flash. ‘Tis crime
To celebrate invention wrought sans heart,
O’er iambic pentameter and rhyme.
The coffin nails arrive with little flair:
“We wish you luck in placing them elsewhere.”

What's in a Name?

Bud Koenemund is The Mad Sonneteer! He earned his unusual – though perfectly descriptive – sobriquet during the summer of 2003. While taking a summer session English course at SUNY Rockland Community College, he allowed his professor, the indomitable Dr. Cliff Garner, to read a few dozen of his poems – including several sonnets.

Garner returned the work with many helpful suggestions, and – because of Koenemund’s love of William Shakespeare’s work, his penchant for writing sonnets (as Shakespeare did), and the overarching theme of his work – dubbed Bud The Mad Sonneteer.

While Koenemund writes in several different forms and across many genre, he usually prefers the challenge of writing an English (or Shakespearean) sonnet.