Memories of You Always Begin with a Smile

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Memories of you always begin

With a smile; thoughts springing forth to curve

My lips: your laugh; whispers; treason kindled

In the dark; brown eyes; that Clapton song still serves.

For a moment – beautiful, though fleeting –

I see your face, and recall the joy of

First sight; offering my heart, not heeding

The warnings given – a fool blind in love.

Sadly, this pleasure cannot live without

Anguish, and gossamer visions spoil

As what might have been, but never was, routs

These daydreams, leaving affection soiled.

   Remembrance endures, the more torment mine,

   For time has yet to purge you from my mind.

She Didn't Love Me the Way I Loved Her

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

She didn’t love me the way I loved her;

That truth is as simple as it is stark.

Yet, this acceptance can’t spark will censured,

Nor provide solace to my broken heart.

An ecstasy birthed at first sight was marred –

Devotion became steeped in a cauldron

Of pain – tortured by eyes ‘twould shame mere stars.

Deceived, desire led too near those suns,

And as passion soared, sanity melted;

Burned away in fires of apathy.

Still, madness can’t erase the fondness felt

While affection lives on in memory.

   Respect oft’ spoils through indifference,

   But, what’s pure won’t dim to maleficence.

Beautiful

By Bud Koenemund

For Shaindel Beers

Poet; what lyric could I offer you,

Knowing these same words inhabit thy brain?

I must request, Artist, briefly eschew

The pen to come muse, and let verse sustain

Thy spirit. Oh, aptly named – Beautiful –

Indeed, a title unmatched by these rhymes,

Be assured, thy visage remains youthful;

Nature undimmed ‘gainst the ravage of time.

Pray, acknowledge this little song as proof

Your countenance is appreciated,

And have faith the fleeting years will show truth

Through wisdom earned, and grace to celebrate.

   This praise springs forth by thy inspiration,

   A living light immortal as the Sun.

Silhouette

By Bud Koenemund

(Note: This sonnet was inspired by a photograph. I have not yet obtained permission to post that. When I do, I will add it.)

For Kristen Brownell

Poets worship beauty between rhymes too

Ethereal – they diminish quickly

When delivered by those praising a muse

On pages stained with verse impolitic.

‘Tis certain heaven abides in the way

A body moves – that holy temptation

Created as breasts jiggle and hips sway –

Enticing mortals to risk damnation.

Though attraction is oft’ obscured by sight –

Passion fueled by the lust for short-lived grace –

Love can flourish between shadow and light,

Binding two forever as souls embrace.

   Not seeing, I find what my eyes neglect

   Hidden in the truth of your silhouette.

The Modern Prometheus

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

What a fool I was to think you my muse!

Believing any mortal could possess

Such grace – a goddess divine; of virtue

Celestial, and spirit unsuppressed.

I swore by your imagined perfection;

Seeking to prove devotion with sonnets

Forged in the fever of self-delusion –

Earning instead shame I fear infinite.

And, like the modern Prometheus, ‘twas

Inevitable this creation would

Destroy my mind, leaving me to puzzle

O’er that emotion most misunderstood.

   Despite defect, my passion was no lie;

   But, love neglected will wither and die.

No Muse is Good Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Passion kindled so quickly, but it seems

The feelings were completely one-sided.

Despite rhythm and rhyme, you crushed my dreams

‘Gainst the rocks reality provided.

Desire blinded me, and I confused

You for the bringer of inspiration;

A goddess to every writer; a muse

Who grants by grace the gift of creation.

The “you” I loved was only illusion –

An ideal built upon self-deception.

And I, fooled by the equivocation,

Believed you would requite my affection.

   I know now you weren’t worth my devotion;

   Sadly, this awareness was too hard won.

You Are Not My Muse

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You are not my muse. She is one perfect –

A luminous goddess personified;

Bearer of soul and spirit sans defect,

And beauty I long to immortalize.

The words oft’ spin with Mercurian speed,

While verses roll easily off my tongue;

Her grace worth every drop of ink I bleed

To revere an angel from heaven sprung.

But, that Being is no more than a ghost;

Or perhaps some fantasy existing

Only in my mind; another dream lost

Come daylight, despite the heart’s insisting.

   When love has choked a fool with eloquence,

   Art quickly sputters to incoherence.

What Sweeter Song

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

How oft’ have I sworn my heart free of thy

Sway, only to dedicate another

Lyric in praise of hair, skin, nose, or eyes?

Indeed, such passion is hard to smother

When the midnight voice whisp’ring in my ear

Is always yours – a muse won’t be ignored.

Although I have lacked thy presence for years,

Mem’ry sustains the tempest in my core.

Lady, you have birthed ten thousand verses;

Every word a razor’s blade that cuts

While I fight ‘gainst myself – this art versus

Sanity. Obsessed? Admittedly. But,

   What sweeter song could I write than to pen

   Thy name forever, over and again?

No Good Deed

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

I never kept my attraction secret,

Rather, regard was too often laid bare.

Yet, I gave comfort, asking no credit,

And thy judgment censured a soul who cared.

Your rebuke, undeserv’d, cut deeply –

A jagged edge drawn, and kindness repaid

With crimson rivers – the wounds still seeping

As you reappeared, once more seeking aid.

How should I answer thee? Open my heart

To thy pleas despite these scars I carry;

When what remains is but the worser part

Of me, and better nature lies buried?

   Charity strives ‘gainst a spirit vanquished;

   For no good deed, they say, goes unpunished.

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.