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.

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.

Allocution

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I have no choice now but to admit guilt;
The blame, by any measure, 'longs to me
Alone. I will trudge to the gallows built
Atop my shame and deliver that plea;
No remorse tempers this allocution;
Though, one excuse I'll give to mitigate
The crime: My heart was misled by passion –
Fooled into thinking you'd reciprocate.
Much like Will's green-eyed Moor, I have "loved not
Wisely but too well." And, that devotion
Blinded me to truth; leaving a mind fraught
With madness for seeking thy affection.
   On the charge of love I stand convicted;
   My penance, I fear, is self-inflicted.