One Hundred Fifty-Four

By Bud Koenemund

For The Master Sonneteer

While others mock adherence to thy form,

The challenge kindles creativity.

Though I struggle, forging order from storms,

Effort is oft’ rewarded with beauty.

I may crow, during less humble moments,

But will be first to note equality

Is symbolic in this accomplishment;

Rightly measured solely by quantity,

Not quality. One hundred fifty-four

Little songs which dripped off tongues of muses;

Many doomed to be shunned, a few adored;

Each speaking the truth with passion infused.

   By Heaven, I pray this imitation,

   Weak as it is, will prove adoration.

Surprise

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

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.