A Poet's Obligatory Ode to a Blank Sheet of Paper

By Bud Koenemund

At rest now, on desktop – yet, I reflect,
Not long ago part of a mighty tree –
Poised as canvas for form crafted perfect,
But oft’ revealing insufficiency.
Does it yearn, like the poet, to become
Great – an ode comparing a summer’s day;
Evening stops by snowy woods; or songs from
Lovers lamenting loss; a chance to gain
Immortality in some small measure?
When the muse speaks, and quill dances with page,
Mere words metamorphose into treasure.
A frenzied scribe ink alone can assuage,
   As they create worlds with paper and pen –
   Driving imagination beyond ken.

The Girl in Those Sonnets

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Can a human really be that perfect?
One being inspiring creation
Of a hundred little songs; an object
Celestial deserving ovation?
May a sole muse supply myriad rhymes
Required to fuel so many quatrains
Pledging devotion ‘til the end of time;
Even if those poems are writ in vain?
I would not believe sans experience –
Bless’d with the maddening gift of words,
As if by some Heavenly existence,
Though denied return of my love absurd.
   "Her;" Dark Lady to a mad sonneteer:
   The genius I will forever hold dear.