I Pray Some Score of Words Writ by Thy Hand

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I pray some score of words writ by thy hand;

Endearments revealing themselves in curves

Of ink; sentiments render'd to stand

As perfect testament of love preferred.

I hunger for the mercy in thy kiss;

A solitary touch of lips 'gainst mine.

Or, the heat of your breath as you whisper

"I love you;" so claiming my heart as thine.

But, too often, Muse, I lack thy favour,

And my soul sickens denied sustenance –

It withers to dust sans one I adore;

Wishing recov'ry by thy maintenance.

   Do not allow doubt to flourish unchecked,

   Nor let this affection die by neglect.

Silence

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Silence does not help temper growing fears –
Avoiding speech serves only to confuse.
I desire to hear thy voice bathe my ears
With truth, although it may once more abuse
A heart battered in the tempests of doubt.
This withholding poisons every thought;
Sickening an affection long devout,
While this fool offers piety for naught.
Love, I beg you, redeem a mind stained black,
And bring an end to this dream-like eclipse
Of despair by granting the thing I lack.
O, claim this soul with a touch of your lips.
   I've borne the torment of limbo, and wish
   To be roused from this nightmare by thy kiss.

Maelstrom

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

A maelstrom of doubt threatens to o'erwhelm
Our hearts, leaving them awash in green-eyed
Jealousy; turning this Heaven to Hell;
As we founder in an ocean of pride.
We both must learn to forgive our mistakes –
Allowing imperfection's perfection.
Accept our flaws, and let tempest rewake
Rapture with promises of affection.
Incandescent desire will not die –
With time a spirit drown'd may revive.
In truth, by woe love oft' intensifies,
So, trust 'gainst this storm our spark can survive.
   Grant passion's flame a chance to rekindle,
   And the grace of this world will ne'er dwindle.

Words and Actions

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

"If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:

Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,

I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay."

– William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (2.2)

Why should I believe thy protestations
Of desire, when you let me languish –
Wandering the wasteland of rejection;
Surrounded by solitude and anguish?
Shall I take thee at thy word, while you speak
Of your heart and soul, as my own lie dead?
How can I once more leave defenses weak,
When by thee to misery I am wed?
May I suppose this Spring-like affection
Real, or will fair weather fade under cloud?
My breast remains guarded 'gainst deception,
Though I yearn for passion proclaimed aloud.
   Someday I'll transcend this pain, and admit
   Love found in actions, not promises writ.

Muse No More

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You were the brightest light in a Heaven
Of stars – one whose brilliance outlasted morn.
Thy invention made my garden Eden;
A paradise somehow fashioned of worn
Rhymes. Indeed, so oft' did thoughts of you guide
My pen, the world might presume you poet,
And I mere scrivener. Within thy eyes
Lived all my words, and in those words the debt
I'll e'er owe thee. But, deceit lay coiled
In this oasis – neglect at its side.
By one, trust will only molder to spoil;
By the other's poison, affection dies.
   Thy graces with quill I did long adore,
   Though, for want of truth, thou art muse no more.

Immunity

For "Her."

The poison of thy rejection has proofed
My heart 'gainst love's trick – asking sacrifice
Of everything for naught – and left aloof
A spirit shamed; being too oft' enticed
To lunacy. While flames which once tempered
The steel of passion have been extinguished –
Drowned beneath an ocean of tears offered
In vain – I rise now shielded by anguish.
Although my soul is filled with discontent,
Like some disease endured, I'll grow inured
To further ills. And, affections now rent
Will serve as catalyst for future cure.
   I'll evermore use pain's propinquity
   To fortify hard-won immunity.

Heart of Darkness

For "Her."

How am I to bear this heart of darkness;

Rejection gnawing deep within my soul,

Like a malignant cancer, relentless

As time itself? What more shall be life's toll?

Must I live on, and endure further pain

For a sin grievous as falling in love?

'Tis sure affection is forever stained;

Cloaked by madness, and the frustration of

Questions I fear answerless – only vain

Queries, worth little more than breath exhaled.

I pray some remedy as mem'ry wanes,

Though, 'til that day, my humor remains veiled.

   No words can free a passion self-exiled,

   Nor, wash it clean once broken and defiled.

Crazy Again

Here's to another 15 years.

– "Her"

Fifteen years. Fuck me sideways! Fifteen years?!
A lifetime passed; so many chances lost.
When lies and doubt feed on the darkest fears
Of a heart, eyes are blind, and trust the cost.
There are no more words in this broken soul;
No rhymes to pen in hope of winning love.
In truth, affection is dead. It's bell tolled
Silently; muted within a cloud of
Dashed dreams disguised as an epiphany.
Madness has once more crept into my brain,
Exposing my yearnings as fantasies –
And granting freedom to rage unrestrained.
   Why must love cause such passion, both when here
   And gone; destroying all that I hold dear?

Drought

For "Her."

If it be thy rain which nourishes love,

I find myself in drought; lacking even

A cloud to bring hope of relief above

The parched landscape of my heart. O, heaven;

Feed this withering affection that it

May flower anew, growing stronger by

Showers of passion. I beg the spirits:

Make us, like lightning and thunder, enskied.

Fear not I may drown within thy torrent;

Though supposed weak, my roots go deeper

Than I can exhibit in this warrant;

But, blooms neglected don't last forever.

   Unleash thy storms to quench this wicked thirst,

   And in my garden of love live immersed.

Broken

For Isabella Pontanares

Perhaps they're right when they call us broken;
When we so often risk sanity for
Love; leaving hearts exposed in this barren
World – yielding all to those we would adore.
Others' failure to see our scars cannot
Make us free of pain. In truth, we endure
A hurt deeper than blades can reach; a rot
Within – vile self-doubt, immune to cure.
Yet, as each breath begs surrender, we find
The strength to carry on; some ghostly hand
To pull us through in both body and mind.
'Tis certain time will become the glue, and
   Someday we'll be surprised to discover
   Our shattered pieces fit back together.