Passion as Penance

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Is inspiration truly worth my soul?

Enduring an eternity of pain

In exchange for rhymes which cannot console

A poet who pursues his muse in vain?

I wish, Dark Lady, I could say you are

Dead to me. Utter the words – and mean them –

As if my will would extinguish a star.

But, your light blazes, and lost love condemns

The mind; infecting slumber with visions

Of thy face; deceiving every sense;

Permitting the devil visitation:

An ambush sans corporeal presence.

   Your mem’ry lives, arousing emotion:

   Passion as penance to seed creation.

Jealous Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

It seems each time a new muse inspires,

The old gets jealous. Imagination

Run amuck. Some unconscious desire,

Perhaps. A bit of self-flagellation;

Punishing my spirit for betraying

Memory; splintering those promises

Set down in so much ink; a mind straying,

Craving the illusion of her kisses.

Countless days past stand proof of devotion,

Or obsession – a defect of reason –

And whispers remain, reviving passion;

Resurrecting my sanity’s treason.

   Thy voice is but a ghost, I do believe,

   Though cannot deny the words I receive.

Never Close My Eyes

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

If you were mine, I’d never close my eyes

When we kiss, afraid you would disappear

Upon opening; like those things enskied

When each morn the returning sun doth ‘pear

O’er far horizon. In truth, I’d savor

Every moment – and yet crave still more;

Searching thy orbs for some sign of favor

Equal to that filling my soul. Restore

Faith in love, and sweeten corrupted dreams,

With a look – evidence to prove thy heart

Attainable – for my hope and esteem

Are spent; bled away by an age apart.

   I hold now only memories, longing,

   And the cold comfort of these little songs.

Guilt

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

I stand guilty; entrapped in self-made plight.

Abandoned by fate, sans defense, I fear,

‘Gainst offenses for which I am indict:

Those of madman, lover, and sonneteer.

I did not think this fervor illicit –

Seeking favor by show of affection.

But, it seems my passion’s too explicit;

And heart’s at fault for miscalculation.

The crime? Infatuation. Foul sin? Lust.

Although I swear my intention was pure,

This imperfect world oft’ inhibits trust,

So your pen wrought the prison I endure.

   Though I’ll not carry this shame forever,

   I must lament the amity severed.

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.