Are You Listening Now?

By Bud Koenemund

For America

As people of color complained about

Jobs, housing, police, and education,

You deflected their issues while touting

401Ks; stock market inflation:

A rising tide that failed to lift all boats.

You fucked the poor as the rich got bigger;

Even schemed at ways to erase their votes,

Yet wonder why anger has been triggered.

You objected when they knelt peacefully –

For Trayvon, Eric, Ahmaud, George, and more –

Insisting “They should have been respectful!”

While wanting protests easy to ignore.

   Tonight, cities burn, and people lie bowed;

   America, are you listening now?

I Make No Secret of My Desire

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

My mind, Lady, I do confess, is filled –
Both awake and in slumber – with fantasies;
Visions erotic from morn through star gilt
Night – illusions bending sanity
Toward madness – dreams that, while wanton, reveal
Subconscious adoration. This lust bears
Certain truth; passion cannot be concealed
For one with whom only Venus compares.
I make no secret of my desire;
A longing, concupiscent to be sure;
Yet, in faith, ‘tis zeal tempered by fire;
Sin purged through the flames, leaving purity.
   But, will transgression be called blasphemy,
   When praising a Goddess in ecstasy?

Tempus Fugit

By Bud Koenemund

In consciousness rises the poet’s plight:

Cursed with knowing time is fleeting; slipping

Past; each moment another dying light;

As, from our birth, those flames are flickering.

Days lost become years; progressing quickly,

Faded and forgotten; surrendered to

Accelerating relativity,

‘Fore the call of skills neglected renews.

Imagination yearns for expression,

And – as this journey hastens toward its end –

A stab at immortality; Passion

Racing the doom we cannot comprehend.

   Crafting perfection is my endeavor;

   Some scrap of verse that will live forever.

Divided

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

Lady; passion and intellect divide
Me. While attraction remains true, I know
Your youth, to my age, is rightly denied.
Like Summer’s bright blooms outshine Winter’s snow,
So doth beauty eclipse infirmity.
Nature favors one as others decline:
Fading steadily in obscurity;
The mortality to which all resign.
What can I do if desire’s forbid?
Only a fool would declare affection –
Exposing an emotion best left hid –
When silence affords certain protection.
   Love is safer wrapped in the guise of art,
   For speaking truth will surely break my heart.

A Goddess and the Sunset

By Bud Koenemund

For Lindsay

(Photograph by Meshi - 2019)

The photograph shows radiance frozen

In time; a Goddess – like some Greek statue –

Contemplates sunset. Beauty in repose;

Veiled in twilight, her skin lit by subdued

Flame married to shadow as day and night

Meet. Aphrodite is reawakened;

A being celestial, burning bright

With fire only the stars can transcend.

Nature and Lady find harmony;

Their graces uniting to inspire art:

The image affords immortality,

While I tender verses writ from my heart.

   Muse; though these words are mine, thine is the praise;

   For ‘tis thy charm that sets my pen ablaze.

Melted Into Air

For T.

With thanks to Janelle Velasquez,
and the Pittsburgh Public Theater.

Floating ‘cross the stage, her motion revelry;

Ariel: dancing, singing – resplendent

As she shimmers, delighting ev’ry

Faculty – a heavenly transcendence.

This spirit – perfection in form, movement,

Gesture, and expression – enchants the eyes;

Filling admirers with wonderment –

Weaving magic throughout as dreams arise.

Yet, my memory dwells on thoughts of thee,

And days past, when you performed the same role –

A pale blue star becoming muse; briefly

Bestowing thy grace ‘pon this poet’s soul.

   Inspiration bred verse of praise and prayer;

   Tendered respect, then melted into air.

Sentinels in Blue

By Bud Koenemund

People dismiss us as inconvenient –

Obstacles to work, school, or vacation.

Sentinels in blue; control they resent –

Even while enjoying our protection.

Often, we are targets of ridicule;

Enduring contempt and indifference.

Cursed by the self-entitled for our rules;

Silent as others vent their annoyance.

Still, a few accept this challenge: standing

Firm ‘gainst those who’d see America bowed.

Our mission is the price freedom demands:

A sacrifice many will never know.

   Each day, we rise, making liberty sure;

   Pledging to keep this, our Homeland, secure.

It Comes at Night

By Bud Koenemund

It comes at night, when I am defenseless.
Black and amorphous, lurking beyond sight;
Yet crushing: enveloping the senses
In fear. Doubt paralyzes, inviting
A surrender I would willingly give.
This unnamed dread – spirit malicious –
Abuses intellect, holding captive
Reason as my own mind becomes seditious;
Left vulnerable to shadows and ghosts –
Specters of depression which mock defeats,
Real or imagined, while I suffer; lost
As thoughts betray: embracing light’s retreat.
   Despair creeps, growing stronger in this gloom,
   Enticing me ever closer to doom.

Ars Gratia Artis

By Bud Koenemund

For Arielle

Life has a certain unfairness in it:

Nature entices heart; lust ignores age,

But fate curses me with visage unfit

To woo. Even still, desire rages.

Enkindled by your grace and intellect –

Beauty which transcends mortal countenance –

Language ignites an inferno unchecked,

Though tendered lacking hope of recompense.

Lady, my admiration is undimmed;

Respect enduring despite passing years,

And this confession – converted to hymn –

Sings a chorus I pray will please thy ear.

   Yours lives on though other memories fade –

   A light immortal; proofed ‘gainst end of days.

One Hundred Fifty-Four

By Bud Koenemund

For The Master Sonneteer

While others mock adherence to thy form,

The challenge kindles creativity.

Though I struggle, forging order from storms,

Effort is oft’ rewarded with beauty.

I may crow, during less humble moments,

But will be first to note equality

Is symbolic in this accomplishment;

Rightly measured solely by quantity,

Not quality. One hundred fifty-four

Little songs which dripped off tongues of muses;

Many doomed to be shunned, a few adored;

Each speaking the truth with passion infused.

   By Heaven, I pray this imitation,

   Weak as it is, will prove adoration.