Silhouette

By Bud Koenemund

(Note: This sonnet was inspired by a photograph. I have not yet obtained permission to post that. When I do, I will add it.)

For Kristen Brownell

Poets worship beauty between rhymes too

Ethereal – they diminish quickly

When delivered by those praising a muse

On pages stained with verse impolitic.

‘Tis certain heaven abides in the way

A body moves – that holy temptation

Created as breasts jiggle and hips sway –

Enticing mortals to risk damnation.

Though attraction is oft’ obscured by sight –

Passion fueled by the lust for short-lived grace –

Love can flourish between shadow and light,

Binding two forever as souls embrace.

   Not seeing, I find what my eyes neglect

   Hidden in the truth of your silhouette.

I Loved You the Only Way I Know How

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I loved you the only way I know how:
Everything I am, or might have become,
Offered freely, and attended by vows
This affection to death could ne’er succumb.
Although sanity was oft’ suspect, no
Measure of devotion can truly gauge
The quantity I swore to thee would grow
E’er stronger as respect ripened with age.
But, shame will stain one who dares to grant all –
Mind, body, and soul – without guarantee
Of recompense, and I lived on enthralled;
Believing someday you’d answer my pleas.
   By all things enskied ‘tween Heaven and Hell,
   I did worship thee past what words can tell.

Lost in Translation

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I sought to place you on a pedestal –
Enskied – the sun candescent 'gainst my dark;
Thinking you a being celestial;
An angel igniting the divine spark.
Desiring to shield you from a world
Of slings and arrows aimed at sanity,
Leaves my soul craving grace as madness whirls –
Begging one kiss to void profanity.
This wish to protect never meant possess –
Locking you away in tallest towers.
And, though some fear by worship I obsess,
My heart aches on, praying passion will flower.
   Often by words emotion can augment,
   But love unrequited breeds discontent.

A Sonnet as Apology to Christina Alvarado

Pray, pardon this inarticulate fool,
Struck dumb gazing upon Venus’ face.
I’ll strive to bestow, with God given tools,
Flowery words to match your Thespian grace;
The tempest past, for ready pen I reach,
Vainly to search for a rhyme to submit
In excuse of silence, or stutt’ring speech,
And to worship thus from paper pulpit;
Oh, sweet Muse, fire of my fevered mind,
Judge me gently and allow me to vie
To once more feel your gentle hand in mine,
And gain one more look in your timeless eyes.
Accept these weak lines of admiration,
For I could not give voice in exaltation.