Wondrous and Magical

By Bud Koenemund

For E.

With apologies to William Shakespeare

I would compare thee to a summer’s day;
But, that one’s been done before, by better
Wit; and verses, I fear, are overplayed
When pretty words, more than actions, matter.
Though my muse could ne’er want for invention
While you, fairest of fair, do grace this earth,
My prose struggles to match inspiration –
A predicament oft’ a poet’s curse.
Be assured, I pray, these creations
Speak truth: exalting spirit unrivaled;
A soul soaring beyond comprehension,
And mind seeking the wondrous and magical.
   My willing labor is thy praise, Empress;
   To bestow immortality my quest.

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.

Tempus Fugit

By Bud Koenemund

In consciousness rises the poet’s plight:

Cursed with knowing time is fleeting; slipping

Past; each moment another dying light;

As, from our birth, those flames are flickering.

Days lost become years; progressing quickly,

Faded and forgotten; surrendered to

Accelerating relativity,

‘Fore the call of skills neglected renews.

Imagination yearns for expression,

And – as this journey hastens toward its end –

A stab at immortality; Passion

Racing the doom we cannot comprehend.

   Crafting perfection is my endeavor;

   Some scrap of verse that will live forever.

Melted Into Air

For T.

With thanks to Janelle Velasquez,
and the Pittsburgh Public Theater.

Floating ‘cross the stage, her motion revelry;

Ariel: dancing, singing – resplendent

As she shimmers, delighting ev’ry

Faculty – a heavenly transcendence.

This spirit – perfection in form, movement,

Gesture, and expression – enchants the eyes;

Filling admirers with wonderment –

Weaving magic throughout as dreams arise.

Yet, my memory dwells on thoughts of thee,

And days past, when you performed the same role –

A pale blue star becoming muse; briefly

Bestowing thy grace ‘pon this poet’s soul.

   Inspiration bred verse of praise and prayer;

   Tendered respect, then melted into air.

You Are Not My Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You are not my muse. She is one perfect –

A luminous goddess personified;

Bearer of soul and spirit sans defect,

And beauty I long to immortalize.

The words oft’ spin with Mercurian speed,

While verses roll easily off my tongue;

Her grace worth every drop of ink I bleed

To revere an angel from heaven sprung.

But, that Being is no more than a ghost;

Or perhaps some fantasy existing

Only in my mind; another dream lost

Come daylight, despite the heart’s insisting.

   When love has choked a fool with eloquence,

   Art quickly sputters to incoherence.

There is a Poem in That Photograph

A sonnet to celebrate a photograph taken by Valena David

For Julie Thiry

There is a poem in that photograph;
The verse slyly hidden amongst the rain,
Writ on her luminescent skin, and half-
Concealed in the waves of her tousled mane.
Rhyme bubbles up from enigmatic eyes,
While the hint of a grin creases her cheek;
It spills words in a Mona Lisa guise,
Which says so much, although she does not speak.
Critics will explain away the magic,
With talk of composition and background,
Missing the mystery – the poetic –
Searching for meaning better left unfound.
I give my pen, weak as it is, to raise
Up both artist and Muse in highest praise!

I Would Write My Poems on Your Body (Redux)

For Amy Lynn Watkins

I would write my poems on your body,
With words that linger like kisses on skin;
Timeless lines praising all you embody,
And find no shame in committing this sin;
I would give sonnets like warm caresses,
To trace o’er your flesh eliciting sighs,
And pen for you most unworthy verses
Of love many know only with their eyes;
The fire of our passion would become art,
Raging higher as desire mates with rhyme,
Requiring no fuel but these beating hearts
To defeat assured death and outlast time.
On flesh and bone the world will take its toll,
But love grants endless life unto your soul.