I Belong!

By Bud Koenemund

For Jenna

In humans resides a passion for art.
Through poetry, ink, music, paint, or song
Many endeavor to express their heart
And soul; an act declaring “I belong!”
Despite critics – the worst living within
Our own minds – we persevere: creating;
Hating; destroying; beginning again;
Working; changing; crafting; re-editing;
Seeking a perfection that oft’ eludes
The grasp of mortals; ever contending
‘Gainst doubt; utilizing talent imbued
To produce genius. And, at our end,
   It matters not if results were obtained
   By tiny increments or sweeping gains.

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.

Jealous Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

It seems each time a new muse inspires,

The old gets jealous. Imagination

Run amuck. Some unconscious desire,

Perhaps. A bit of self-flagellation;

Punishing my spirit for betraying

Memory; splintering those promises

Set down in so much ink; a mind straying,

Craving the illusion of her kisses.

Countless days past stand proof of devotion,

Or obsession – a defect of reason –

And whispers remain, reviving passion;

Resurrecting my sanity’s treason.

   Thy voice is but a ghost, I do believe,

   Though cannot deny the words I receive.

Emerald Eyes

By Bud Koenemund

For C.

I write without hope of gaining favor,

As age precludes the assumption of grace.

Nonetheless, my pen must strive to honor

Beauty; praising the features of thy face

With homage forged in ink, not carv’d stone;

For what alabaster could not help turn

Obsidian when it your fairness shown?

Why even the silent fires that burn

Amidst the heavens daily shroud their flames

Once thy jeweled orbs ope to gaze upon

The world, for they outshine emeralds, and shame

Creatures made dreary by comparison.

   Though my art is oft’ begot in madness,

   I pray these words will prove balm to sadness.

Talent

By Bud Koenemund

You never cease to amaze me. I wish I had your talent. – "Her."

O, what have I wrought which does not belong
To thee, when my fingers move but by thy
Influence? How can such passion be wrong,
When in every rhyme you stand ally?
While I'll fade as I measure out my life
With reams of paper and ink cartridges,
These words will live forever, and through strife
You'll own me: heart, soul, bone, and cartilage.
Lady, these little songs do testify
'Gainst talent. And, though I so often fail
At composing verses to glorify,
My words stand proof of devotion unveiled.
   What gift I may possess is truly thine,
   For thou art both my muse and love divine.

I Pray Some Score of Words Writ by Thy Hand

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I pray some score of words writ by thy hand;

Endearments revealing themselves in curves

Of ink; sentiments render'd to stand

As perfect testament of love preferred.

I hunger for the mercy in thy kiss;

A solitary touch of lips 'gainst mine.

Or, the heat of your breath as you whisper

"I love you;" so claiming my heart as thine.

But, too often, Muse, I lack thy favour,

And my soul sickens denied sustenance –

It withers to dust sans one I adore;

Wishing recov'ry by thy maintenance.

   Do not allow doubt to flourish unchecked,

   Nor let this affection die by neglect.