Orpheus and Eurydice

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

At first sight, beguiled by your beauty,
I became lost in imagination;
Creating art for you – not a duty;
Rather, some blessing of inspiration.
Through this privilege, I sought sacred words
That would enter your ears to captivate
Heart and soul, heedless of the cost incurred;
For passion made me a fool; prostrated
By indifference – over and again.
My mournful songs echo your absence,
While grief traps love in an underworld, straining
To hear footsteps; finding only silence.
   But, unlike the tragic story myth tells,
   With each look back, ‘tis I return to hell.

How Much of Me Must Burn?

By Bud Koenemund

For “Her.”

Heat endures, though I wonder if it’s worth
Fanning embers of a love that’s dying;
Going cold by neglect, and growing worse
When it seems I’m the only one trying
To rekindle those bright flames of passion –
Once incandescent – desire that burned
In our souls. Shall I accept affection
Will never revive? The respect I yearned
For denied, my heart glows on a pyre
Since your scorn; while what sanity remains
Is condemned to the maelstrom of Hell’s fire.
True, I offered all… and would again;
   Yet, a tragic question lurks in that storm:
   How much of me must burn to keep us warm?

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.

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.

It's Mine, and I Can Touch it if I Want

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Pain is the cost of living, and mem’ry
Its tithe; images – good and bad – that dwell
To merge art with a mind in jeopardy;
Risking yet another descent toward Hell.
Like any addict, I’ll never be free
Of thy damned compulsion; left forever
Trapped between slavery and liberty,
‘Til the mortal coil has been severed.
While my scars will linger, and the bruises –
An ugly, yellow-black – refuse to fade,
There is some profit when anguish ‘comes muse,
And, by genius is suffering repaid.
   There is truth in the misery that haunts:
   It’s mine, and I can touch it if I want.

I Loved You the Only Way I Know How

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I loved you the only way I know how:
Everything I am, or might have become,
Offered freely, and attended by vows
This affection to death could ne’er succumb.
Although sanity was oft’ suspect, no
Measure of devotion can truly gauge
The quantity I swore to thee would grow
E’er stronger as respect ripened with age.
But, shame will stain one who dares to grant all –
Mind, body, and soul – without guarantee
Of recompense, and I lived on enthralled;
Believing someday you’d answer my pleas.
   By all things enskied ‘tween Heaven and Hell,
   I did worship thee past what words can tell.

Maelstrom

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

A maelstrom of doubt threatens to o'erwhelm
Our hearts, leaving them awash in green-eyed
Jealousy; turning this Heaven to Hell;
As we founder in an ocean of pride.
We both must learn to forgive our mistakes –
Allowing imperfection's perfection.
Accept our flaws, and let tempest rewake
Rapture with promises of affection.
Incandescent desire will not die –
With time a spirit drown'd may revive.
In truth, by woe love oft' intensifies,
So, trust 'gainst this storm our spark can survive.
   Grant passion's flame a chance to rekindle,
   And the grace of this world will ne'er dwindle.