Inspiration in Desire

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

I fear, Lady, it lies not within my
Power to make you immortal through words
Spilled forth upon a page. Rhythm and rhyme
Fall too short ‘fore thy grace. Prose is absurd;
Found deficient ‘gainst the scope of beauty
Displayed both inside and out. Such discourse,
Oft’ repeated, will turn stale; a duty
Poets must embrace, lest their vows seem forced.
For thee, Muse, I am compelled to create;
Finding inspiration in desire –
A passion that may never be sated.
Yet, here, I strive to raise thy fame higher.
   Crafting true praise remains my endeavor;
   As I seek to make you live forever.

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.

Seen

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

"In the right eyes, you will be art." - Unknown

How could any set of eyes miss the art
Contained within you? Even those who don’t
Create illumined by you feel your heart:
Acknowledging grace as artists are wont.
Though it is, in truth, the job of poets
To praise beauty; ‘tis thy inspiration –
Arising from your spirit, more than my wit –
That gives birth to these celebrations
Of radiance. All things, seen and unseen;
Love and lust; denial and desire;
The chaos of black, white, and gray between,
Feed the maelstrom of a mind set fire.
   I must give credit where credit is due:
   The world will know these words belong to you.

Wondrous and Magical

By Bud Koenemund

For E.

With apologies to William Shakespeare

I would compare thee to a summer’s day;
But, that one’s been done before, by better
Wit; and verses, I fear, are overplayed
When pretty words, more than actions, matter.
Though my muse could ne’er want for invention
While you, fairest of fair, do grace this earth,
My prose struggles to match inspiration –
A predicament oft’ a poet’s curse.
Be assured, I pray, these creations
Speak truth: exalting spirit unrivaled;
A soul soaring beyond comprehension,
And mind seeking the wondrous and magical.
   My willing labor is thy praise, Empress;
   To bestow immortality my quest.

All the Words in the World

By Bud Koenemund

How oft’ did verses take birth in your eyes;
As if each glimpse granted inspiration?
I prayed those poems to Heaven would fly,
And sway thy bosom with proofed affection.
I wanted, for us, immortality –
Bestowing fame lasting beyond our years;
This ambition surpassing vanity:
More a devotion of toil and tears.
In the end, though, my efforts achieved
Nothing but changing pain for passion true;
When desire conspired to deceive
An ever foolish man who dared love you.
   This song mourns the impotence of my art;
   For all the words in the world won’t win your heart.

When I Have a Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For C.

When I have a muse, words fit perfectly;

Finding their places as if by magic,

While airy voices whisper secretly:

Poetry and prose midst verse emphatic.

I labor nonetheless, forging sonnets –

Shaping songs with odd old ends of language;

Bleeding ink on paper. This gift, honest

As it is, oft’ dooms my soul to languish;

Drifting through passionate desperation.

But, by your grace, confidence awakens:

Imagination invents expression,

And desire restores a faith shaken.

   Though form arouses creativity,

   ‘Tis thy genius which sparks my artistry.

Surprise

Actually, it's only a little more than half. ;-)

By Your Inspiration

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

I am, too often, deficient in speech;

Struck silent by the war ‘twixt intellect

And passion; seeking language that would reach

Your heart; confessions I pray might connect

Our souls; striving to express desire,

While pledging the respect of innocence.

Though my rhymes are feeble, I must admire

Thy beauty, and compliment elegance.

Muse, thou art more deserving of esteem

Than any who treads upon the base Earth

We inhabit. From that grace, like sunbeams,

Words radiate to celebrate love’s worth.

   Be sure such light enkindles creation,

   For this took life by your inspiration.

What Makes Me Write?

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 III: Insufficiency)

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

In truth, Muse, I dread thy inspiration;

The mid-night whisperings that tease my ear,

Once more igniting flames of obsession –

A passion undiminished despite years

Neglected; left smoldering and alone.

I must confess, ‘tis not thy tongue I fear,

And rather should embrace the songs you’ve sown –

Sacred melodies I alone can hear –

But, shame lives in my insufficiency:

Knowing mere words are unequal to your

Grace, and their praise oft’ falls short lyrically.

For this sin, thy pardon I do implore.

   These rhymes – unworthy of the page they stain –

   Serve as reminders of love never gained.

Beautiful

By Bud Koenemund

For Shaindel Beers

Poet; what lyric could I offer you,

Knowing these same words inhabit thy brain?

I must request, Artist, briefly eschew

The pen to come muse, and let verse sustain

Thy spirit. Oh, aptly named – Beautiful –

Indeed, a title unmatched by these rhymes,

Be assured, thy visage remains youthful;

Nature undimmed ‘gainst the ravage of time.

Pray, acknowledge this little song as proof

Your countenance is appreciated,

And have faith the fleeting years will show truth

Through wisdom earned, and grace to celebrate.

   This praise springs forth by thy inspiration,

   A living light immortal as the Sun.

Passion as Penance

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Is inspiration truly worth my soul?

Enduring an eternity of pain

In exchange for rhymes which cannot console

A poet who pursues his muse in vain?

I wish, Dark Lady, I could say you are

Dead to me. Utter the words – and mean them –

As if my will would extinguish a star.

But, your light blazes, and lost love condemns

The mind; infecting slumber with visions

Of thy face; deceiving every sense;

Permitting the devil visitation:

An ambush sans corporeal presence.

   Your mem’ry lives, arousing emotion:

   Passion as penance to seed creation.

The Bosom of Venus

By Bud Koenemund

For TK
(& James Franco)

Thou art, Lady, worthy of sweetest rhymes,
That might entice the bosom of Venus;
Possessing a beauty which transcends time
When thy visage serves to kindle genius.
The mysteries of inspiration lay
Beyond my ken, but I must praise thee, Muse;
As verse twirls in a lyrical ballet,
I accept thy favor without excuse.
Yet, I would trade all those words for a kiss,
And the sound of you whispering my name;
Oh, welcome desire and hasten bliss,
As souls unite, forged strong by passion’s flames.
   My sanctuary lives within thy breast;
   A place I pray my heart may find its rest.

Love, of You, I Desire a Favor

For "Her."

Love, of you, I desire a favor;
A tattered scarf or a plain strip of lace.
Some gift to sustain me when I waver;
A light to lead me from the darkest place;
I beg some physical inspiration,
A forgotten cloth that still holds your scent.
Some token to fire imagination,
And jolt my brain when my dreams are all spent;
What I wish is only a trifle, yes;
A simple item that you’ll never miss.
This lifeless object I need, I confess,
To comfort me when I can’t have your kiss.
My Lady, I humbly pray for your love
To all the bright stars in heaven above.