Paradise or the Abyss

By Bud Koenemund

For TK

Enchantment from first sight I do admit;
Physical separation cannot quell,
Nor the disparity of years omit,
This truth which has too long in shadows dwelled.
Yearning to touch you compels – fingertips
Caressing skin warmed by dragon’s fire –
My mouth constantly hungers for your lips;
Though, lust is not the limit of desire.
I would, Lady, endeavour to become
The poet held highest in thy esteem;
For you, muse, who so oft’ has left me dumb,
Might mend my heart, and a lost soul redeem.
   I beg, let not impediments divide,
   And embrace these lyrics birthed in your eyes.

A Poet's Obligatory Ode to a Blank Sheet of Paper

By Bud Koenemund

At rest now, on desktop – yet, I reflect,
Not long ago part of a mighty tree –
Poised as canvas for form crafted perfect,
But oft’ revealing insufficiency.
Does it yearn, like the poet, to become
Great – an ode comparing a summer’s day;
Evening stops by snowy woods; or songs from
Lovers lamenting loss; a chance to gain
Immortality in some small measure?
When the muse speaks, and quill dances with page,
Mere words metamorphose into treasure.
A frenzied scribe ink alone can assuage,
   As they create worlds with paper and pen –
   Driving imagination beyond ken.

By Muse Gifted

By Bud Koenemund

How do poems arise if not by muse
Gifted? Bestowed upon the inspired
Like sparks flickering off a lighted fuse:
Prelude to a blast of creative fire.
But, where lies the line between flame and fuel?
Is there divide ‘twixt poet and Goddess;
Or are scribes indebted for each jewel
Conveyed through genius? And, while less modest
Egos, so often inflated by pride,
May out of hand reject this argument,
Their hubris will stand tribute to the tide
Of rhythm and rhyme Erato has lent.
   I can never repay thy influence;
   Nor suitably praise such mellifluence.

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.

My Own Worst Enemy

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Heaven knows why I continue to blame
You for my fragmented soul, when the fault
Lies with me alone. But, admitting shame
Achieves no solace – no peace to exalt –
When my thoughts constantly echo failure –
Real and imagined – poisoning present
Delight; making my own mind the jailer
Of happiness. I fear this discontent
Will grow, festering in obscurity;
Resistant to the healing love provides.
Neglect has sullied passion’s purity;
Cursing affection by excising pride.
   Memories of you leave my heart fallow,
   And forever proofed ‘gainst Cupid’s arrow.

The Tears of a Clown

By Bud Koenemund

For Robin Williams

It seems those blessed in creativity
Are oft’ tortured as well by depression;
Demons who whisper so persuasively;
Tempting them e’er closer to destruction.
Though approbation may stave off despair,
It can grow strong, creeping in the shadows
Of the mind, while all remain unaware
Their well-meant compliments can ring hollow.
I can’t pretend to understand your pain,
Only empathize by comparison:
We each bear our own burdens; many chained
To fear and doubt; mocked by imperfection.
   O Captain! though words will pale ‘gainst sorrow;
   Despite tears, I’ll rise to seize tomorrow.

What Would Jesus Say?

By Bud Koenemund

For the tired, the poor, the huddled masses.

What would Jesus say if he knew those with
Abundance refuse souls truly in need?
When their ignorance serves to feed a myth
Rather than a mouth, would He call that greed?
Should His pride unfurl when hatred is hurled
At women and children by those who claim
To believe in One who made the whole World;
Or, will His judgment serve to kindle shame?
He commands, “Suffer the little children
To come unto me.” Yet, blessed with plenty,
Many fail His word, condemning millions
Of innocents to life in poverty.
   It is human weakness which makes gold’s worth
   Seem higher than our brothers on this Earth.

Indelible

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

These little songs mock me; e’er taunting in
Ink indelible as the years wasted
Begging love; the shame tattooed on my skin –
A reminder of passion untasted.
My own words accuse, indicting my mind
For crimes unpardonable, and judgment
Is damned, as if fervor can be confined
To those requiting life’s sweetest torment.
While I cannot hope to avoid the sting
Of other’s ridicule, that anguish pales
‘Gainst the unending pain self-contempt brings
An ego stripped bare as sanity fails.
   Though the heart struggles on, forever seared,
   Scars left on the soul never disappear.

Resignation

By Bud Koenemund

A certain freedom comes with surrender
(Interpret this as: giving up; quitting) –
Conceding defeat not to engender
Pity, but to gain peace by admitting
I lack the strength to fight every ghost:
Past, present, and future knit together.
When yielding is less painful than love lost,
I must end devotion to that altar.
The mind acknowledges this submission
Seems childish; the heart no longer cares.
Affection, once golden, has become dun,
And by relenting I escape despair.
   Serenity lies in accepting that
   I’ll die alone…and be eaten by cats.

You Don't Love Me, But You Won't Let Me Go

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Fearing you've returned to hurt me again,
I crumble once more – left wondering what
I've done to deserve the unending pain
You inflict: the indifference which cuts
Through body and soul, infecting my mind
With doubt, and an anger that taints the heart –
Poisoning affection; leaving me blind
To delight, e'en as I seek a new start.
You don't love me, but you won't let me go.
And I, unable to resist, still trust
An illusion, just an idiot's hope,
Someday we'll rebuild passion from the dust.
   Dark Lady, I beg, understand my plea:
   Claim my hand…or forever set me free.