Fair Comparison to Things Enskied

By Bud Koenemund

For Melissa B.

What would you desire; words enchanting

Your heart, or igniting flames in thy soul?

I can wield them; create by descanting

Upon love and veiled lust with quill and scroll.

Inspired by a grace unseen, my pen

Takes flight, striving to reveal some small truth

With verse; granting immortality when

Thy mem’ry lives on in eternal youth.

Let those lips I long for whisper the tune,

And rhymes will flow praising sapphire eyes,

Brighter, by fancy, than the Sun and Moon –

But, fair comparison to things enskied.

   A new muse fires imagination,

   And I return songs of adulation.

The Mad Sonneteer Muses Club

By Bud Koenemund

For my (many?) Muses

In truth, it’s a club rather exclusive –

Relative to, you might say, Madison

Square Garden; nigh a score of elusive

Muses. Plus a mad sonneteer undone

By words – admittedly a clumsy tool –

For he frights the hearts he would admire.

‘Tis an easy task: arousing a fool,

Immolating his soul upon the pyre

Of love, then leaving him to beg favor

While tilting vainly at the dragon lust.

Would not one reach out; becoming savior

To a poet, thus mending broken trust?

   Lady, forgive this proliferation;

   I swear, it could ne’er dilute affection.

Emerald Eyes

By Bud Koenemund

For C.

I write without hope of gaining favor,

As age precludes the assumption of grace.

Nonetheless, my pen must strive to honor

Beauty; praising the features of thy face

With homage forged in ink, not carv’d stone;

For what alabaster could not help turn

Obsidian when it your fairness shown?

Why even the silent fires that burn

Amidst the heavens daily shroud their flames

Once thy jeweled orbs ope to gaze upon

The world, for they outshine emeralds, and shame

Creatures made dreary by comparison.

   Though my art is oft’ begot in madness,

   I pray these words will prove balm to sadness.

What's in a Name?

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Thy name, which I worshiped ‘bove all others –
Goddess of my idolatry – a prayer
Once whispered in reverence, has smothered
Piety, like a fire denied air.
Beauty exalted; enskied by angel’s
Voices; celebrated in the Heavens;
That word, so pure and sacred, now doth quell
My life, leaving a faithful soul riven.
And, even as fragments struggle toward light,
Betrayal drags me deeper into Hell,
Unleashing horrors; such harrowing sights
None, save perhaps Alighieri, can tell.
   “Her” – my Dark Lady – will as muse endure,
   Though ‘gainst deception I remain inured.

Dollars and Sense

By Bud Koenemund

Some will deny facts; refute evidence;
Censure prophets whose message fuels outrage;
Ignore inevitable consequence;
In defiance of danger disengage;
Celebrate dividend distributions
Over the desiccated bones of Earth,
And trumpet their only contribution:
Endlessly monetizing nature’s worth;
Squeezing every dollar from land and sea;
Placing short-term profit ‘bove common weal;
Assuming no blame for the bill they’ll leave:
A world’s future condemned without appeal.
   Disbelief does not make science untrue,
   But will compound the penalties accrued.

Lust and Love are Alike Attired

By Bud Koenemund

Desire burns hot, torturing my mind
With visions of two becoming one flesh;
Fantasies of your skin pressed against mine,
And endearments lost as we fight for breath.
Surrender to me, and our bodies will
Melt together in the dragon’s fire;
Embracing sin, and ecstasy fulfilled,
As toward the little death we aspire.
Lady, please pardon my vulgarity,
For I lack the pretty prose required
To spark passion. Though ‘tis absurdity,
So oft’ lust and love are alike attired.
   I seek not by words to mislead your heart,
   Offering only truth disguised as art.

Revival

By Bud Koenemund

For New York City

Emerging from Mister Holland’s Tunnel,
I open the windows and take a deep
Breath, relishing City air in my lungs –
Savoring aromas as mem’ries creep
Through my mind, re-igniting the spirit.
I’ve missed this place; its electricity
Defying description – an infinite
Power source to fuel creativity.
Psychedelic allegory abounds;
Similes, like rain, stream off the rooftops,
O’erwhelming sense, as metaphors resound;
Echoing off every street and shop.
   I sing to celebrate my soul’s rebirth
   Here at the crossroads of the Universe.

I'll Hate Myself to Sleep

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Her words cut through the ether, ensuring
Another night I’ll hate myself to sleep.
The mind o’erthrown becomes an unwilling
Traitor – yielding all sense as mem’ry creeps;
Rising once more from the abyss of dreams.
You’d think by now my heart would be immune;
Standing impregnable ‘gainst lies which seem
Sweet, though prove nothing but a Siren’s tune.
In truth, I can’t deny wishing to hear
Those songs again, although I know they’ll cause
Renewed pain; fueling a madness I fear
Leaves love forever corrupted and flawed.
   Lady, I beg, demand no more of me,
   For thy tongue hath bred my soul’s agony.

At First Sight

By Bud Koenemund

For Julianne.

I am a “love at first sight” kind of guy;
Always have been, despite a desire
To protect my heart – defying my eyes –
And, thus proof the soul ‘gainst passion’s fire.
Courting ruin, I relish “the flutter;”
That mix of madness, infatuation,
And weakness; lust rendering thoughts a blur
Of hopes and dreams burning bright as the sun.
But, this emotion is tinged with sadness;
A wish that I were a better poet,
And possessed the words needed to express
How I long for space within thy orbit.
   ‘Tis foolish to live a Romantic when
   The magic of love lies beyond my ken.

I Still Cut Myself Open on Your Words

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I still cut myself open on your words;
Once more replacing the numbness with pain;
Slicing through my psyche, trying to purge
Thoughts of you, as if blood could help regain
Years wasted, sanity rent, or the pride
Sacrificed pursuing false memories.
Innocence led me to believe your lies –
Seeming to offer love, answering pleas –
But, the more I tried to embrace your heart –
Clutching in vain at an ethereal
Emotion – the faster you tore apart
My world; making life immaterial.
   While wounds may scab over, time will not heal
   The burning torment of the shame I feel.