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.

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.

Seduction by Art

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

My ambition is seduction by art;

Tempting with lyrics that dance across skin,

As poetry speaks love from tongue to heart;

Stirring desire which blesses such sin.

Your form fires the imagination,

Shaping rhyme; verses take life in those eyes,

And a gloved hand could cause an eruption:

Expressions of fervor for one enskied.

I pray these words will arouse ecstasy –

Undressing body and mind; illicit

Acts to satiate lust: a melody

Of moans unifying flesh with spirit.

   My passion grows beyond concupiscence;

   An oath I trust will excuse this offense.

What Makes Me Write?

More Fool Than Poet

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

If poetry could amend my visage;

Its rhythm melt away a dozen years,

Allowing prose or rhyme power to bridge

The chasm twixt concupiscence and fear,

I would dedicate my verses for thee;

Endeavouring ever to coax your smile

With little songs proclaiming its beauty –

Confessions composed in a heart beguiled.

But, cursed by time, what words can I bestow

That might defy fortune and win thy kiss?

Lady; you make me more fool than poet;

Courting doom as age mocks my search for bliss.

   Oh, Muse; goddess of creativity;

   Thy grace shall achieve immortality.

The Call Home

For Dan Masterson; poet, teacher, mentor, and friend

The call home comes far too soon for those left
Behind. Not unexpected, of course – we
Each owe God this debt – yet somehow bereft
Of any divine sense of poetry;
We'll stand in loose circles at the viewing,
Grim-faced and consoling, while holding hushed
Exchanges, listening to those who knew
Him well, and the students whose lives he touched;
"He was a good man," someone will say, and
Heads will bob to augment muttered consent.
"The best…gone too soon," they'll echo off hand
As their thoughts quickly turn to the present.
But, I am one whose mem'ry will linger,
Holding your words in my mind and fingers.