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.

Shakespeare and the Internet

By Bud Koenemund

A bit of serious silliness in the name of my friend, teacher,
and Master sonneteer, Mr. William Shakespeare.

If ‘twere true I did actually say
But half the shite attributed to me
With Internet memes, the count of my plays
Would blossom from 38 to 50.
Although I invented some two thousand
Words and phrases – simply plucked from thin air –
And our language by my hand did expand,
I beg thee friends, cease, keep peace, and forbear
To disgrace my work with thy online faults;
Rather, praise the right author’s creation,
And spare my reputation these assaults,
Which in the soul engender frustration.
   I wish a plague upon those who would dare
   Disturb my genius with such prose impaired.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

By Bud Koenemund

For the tired, the poor, the huddled masses.

Despite the wishes of those in power,
This revolution will be televised.
The poor; sick; starving masses who cowered,
Will no longer accept a genocide
Of economic strangulation, while
Beings who possess so much continue
Demanding more – even as they revile
Souls suffering in need. Flesh and sinew
Will awaken; spirits rise ‘bove contempt;
The angry will be heard; the hungry fed,
And homeless housed when we find redemption
In helping others ‘long a path all tread.
   This world will emerge, better than it was,
   When every man’s fate becomes our cause.

Soured Kisses

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Every kiss that could have been yours sours
On my lips, left ungiven – infected
With quotidian doubt, which devours
The spirit; worsening when neglected.
You refused the amity I tendered,
Abandoning a poet created
In your eyes. This rejection engendered
An embarrassment time cannot negate.
I can’t claim a soul blessed with perfection;
But, despite my faults – which are manifold –
Each promise of honor and affection
Was pure – untarnished as the finest gold.
   This heart has been damaged beyond measure,
   And will ne’er again count love life’s treasure.

Aiding and Abetting

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

The deadliest monsters will sometimes bait;
Enticing the naïve by melodies;
Infusing ev’ry song with oaths to sate
Desire – ‘til choruses turn elegies.
The truth, it seems, is that you were never
My muse, and this poet sought creation
In a daydream; no more than some clever
Figment built by his imagination.
If it be necessary to place blame,
‘Tis my heart – deceived at first sight by eyes
Blind in worship – which merited the shame
I bear; a failure that lives undisguised.
   Many fiends hold power to make love sin,
   And, these enemies too oft’ lie within.

It's Mine, and I Can Touch it if I Want

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Pain is the cost of living, and mem’ry
Its tithe; images – good and bad – that dwell
To merge art with a mind in jeopardy;
Risking yet another descent toward Hell.
Like any addict, I’ll never be free
Of thy damned compulsion; left forever
Trapped between slavery and liberty,
‘Til the mortal coil has been severed.
While my scars will linger, and the bruises –
An ugly, yellow-black – refuse to fade,
There is some profit when anguish ‘comes muse,
And, by genius is suffering repaid.
   There is truth in the misery that haunts:
   It’s mine, and I can touch it if I want.

A Completely Sincere, and Hardly Creepy at all, Sonnet for a Young Woman I Barely Know

By Bud Koenemund

For L.

‘Tis difficult gazing into your eyes;
Their dusky beauty doth inhibit thought –
Scrambling cognition each time I spy
Those jellied orbs – leaving my brain o’erwrought.
Undeniably, the sight is pleasing,
And anticipated, ever bright’ning
The drear I daily struggle through; easing
By some degree my gloom, e’en lightening
The spirit. In truth, I should remain mute;
Appreciating thy loveliness from
Afar – knowing my age allows no suit.
But, ‘gainst this charge, my pen cannot stay dumb.
   And though by these words the heart is betrayed,
   I beg you accept this innocent praise.

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.

Epic Romance Fail

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

I should have known better; realized from
The beginning that girls like you don’t fall
For guys like me – despite the many dumb
Sonnets I’ve written. Still, I had the gall
To hold faith in crazy fairy tale love –
Gripping two with passion; unshakable
Emotion sacred in the eyes of Jove.
I risked odds not only improbable,
But impossible absent a silver screen,
And the penalty I endure now
Is believing my affections obscene;
Forever beyond what fate will allow.
   This world may justly pronounce me a fool
   For possessing a mind by heart o’eruled.