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?

A Goddess and the Sunset

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

(Photograph by Meshi - 2019)

The photograph shows radiance frozen

In time; a Goddess – like some Greek statue –

Contemplates sunset. Beauty in repose;

Veiled in twilight, her skin lit by subdued

Flame married to shadow as day and night

Meet. Aphrodite is reawakened;

A being celestial, burning bright

With fire only the stars can transcend.

Nature and Lady find harmony;

Their graces uniting to inspire art:

The image affords immortality,

While I tender verses writ from my heart.

   Muse; though these words are mine, thine is the praise;

   For ‘tis thy charm that sets my pen ablaze.

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.

Love: 1998 - 2016 (Part II: She Was...)

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

The being who made me invincible,

Yet somehow retained power to destroy

My soul. A spirit irresistible

To mine, her indulgence became my joy.

A muse who inspired so many words;

With eyes that stole my breath, leaving silence.

Alpha and omega – creating worlds

In the mind, even while corrupting sense.

That living Venus; goddess who revealed

The heavens to which emotion can soar,

And self-doubt creating a battlefield

Within my heart – conflicting love and war.

   If it be obsession, I’ll not defend;

   She lives forever: beginning and end.

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.

No Muse is Good Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Passion kindled so quickly, but it seems

The feelings were completely one-sided.

Despite rhythm and rhyme, you crushed my dreams

‘Gainst the rocks reality provided.

Desire blinded me, and I confused

You for the bringer of inspiration;

A goddess to every writer; a muse

Who grants by grace the gift of creation.

The “you” I loved was only illusion –

An ideal built upon self-deception.

And I, fooled by the equivocation,

Believed you would requite my affection.

   I know now you weren’t worth my devotion;

   Sadly, this awareness was too hard won.

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.

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.