Touch

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

The electricity of fingertips
Brushing ‘gainst my back creates a maelstrom
In the mind. Rationality is stripped
Away while intellect sputters – struck dumb.
What words can I use to describe your touch;
When every attempt, it seems, falls short;
Leaving language languishing as I clutch
At rhythm and rhymes? I give praise to court
Thy favor, but remain ever aware
Your hand is forbidden to mine; a fact
My brain accepts – though it flays the heart bare,
And sanity spirals in cataract.
   This verse can make no claim to innocence;
   Nor should be damned as mere concupiscence.

It's Mine, and I Can Touch it if I Want

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Pain is the cost of living, and mem’ry
Its tithe; images – good and bad – that dwell
To merge art with a mind in jeopardy;
Risking yet another descent toward Hell.
Like any addict, I’ll never be free
Of thy damned compulsion; left forever
Trapped between slavery and liberty,
‘Til the mortal coil has been severed.
While my scars will linger, and the bruises –
An ugly, yellow-black – refuse to fade,
There is some profit when anguish ‘comes muse,
And, by genius is suffering repaid.
   There is truth in the misery that haunts:
   It’s mine, and I can touch it if I want.

If Age Presented No Impediment

For Erene.

If age presented no impediment,
As it were but sand falling through a glass,
I would wish you to release the love pent
Within my pen, a love too long held fast;
Measure not the thread of my graying years,
Nor let your gaze linger upon my scarred
Visage, but let me live within your gyre,
And bestow upon me your love unbarred;
It is in thy pow’r to unlock my mind.
Oh, part the long centuries and grant me
The gentle touch of your Greek sisters nine,
And I will spend love’s labours but for thee.
Young heart, I would desire you my Muse,
To give, by thy love, words for me to use.