She cut herself with a kitchen knife
And yet no drop of blood did I see.
And the parted flesh was lily white;
Bare nerve and bone that did not bleed.
And she quickly turned to where I stood,
But I switched my gaze before her glance
And felt stern eyes that searched and probed
My face, which bore a mask-like trance.

She seemed relieved that I had not seen,
Or so she thought, and then turned back
And wrapped the hand in linen clean,
And went about her daily work.
She gave no notice of her blundering
And asked about the morrows’ weather.
I stood there dumb in quiet wondering,
Then said, perhaps it will be better.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I am going to the meadow
Where the lady slipper grows,
Where the grass is green and even
And the sparkling waters flow;

Where the sun drenched daisies slumber
And the soft spring breezes blow,
I am going to the meadow
In the valley down below.

I am going to the meadow
Whistle sweetly, soft and low,
See the gentle flowers beckon,
Twilight shadows now unfold.

I am going to the meadow,
Kiss me softly as I go;
I am going to the meadow,
In the valley far below.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The flower we nurtured
With tears and sunshine smiles,
Now languishes in autumn light.

Purple petals drooping,
Shivering in the breeze;
Shadowed by the encroaching night.

Stars in solemn mourning,
Watching from skies above,
Proclaim it a pitiful sight.

This flower, born of spring;
Cradled in summer arms,
Embracing a wintery blight.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Darkness settles lonely on the land;
In its’ humble hollowness I stand.
Listening to the echos now apart;
Echos of a softly mourning heart.

Quiet memories now my thoughts entreat,
Tear drops slowly stain a sullen cheek.
Wondering why fair summers have to die;
Wondering if you too alone would cry.

Did our actions grieve some jealous god?
Did we not in love his bounty laud?
Did some silent error mete this fate?
Did our love some maxim desecrate?

Do we now embrace this destiny;
Smile and sail into a stormy sea?
Clutch our memories to our breasts and weep,
As a barren mother suckles grief…

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Now my darling, are you grieving
Over golden dreams receding?
Are the distant pastures greener as they say?

Do you think of those you’re missing?
Are your gentle lips not kissing?
Do you pen your secret longings every day?

Are you ever feeling lonely
For the one who loved you only—
The one who once your stolid heart did sway?

As you wake from sleep each morning,
Do the time-worn lines give warning?
Can you see the silken curls growing grey?

In the evening by the fire
Does your mind’s eye ever tire
Of roving where the distant memories lay?

As those memories do entreat you
Does a sullen tear now greet you,
Or does cold conscience keep them still at bay?

Does your hardened heart grow tender
When you chance to still remember
How hearts and souls once sang in joyful play?

Or does summer sun now find you
With your youthful hues behind you—
And does your silent mirror friend betray?

How do you greet the morrow
Full of gladness, tinged with sorrow—
With its smile a woeful frown you wear all day?

Does your barren breast now mourn you
For  the children who now scorn you—
Did you ever dream it all would end this way?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

If not now,
Then when?

If not here,
Then where?

If not you,
Then who?

If not love,
Then why?

For all be nought,
If not
For
Love.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Youth is full of dreams and laughter
Ever here and ever after.
What’s to come seems so absurd,
Tomorrows’ just another word.

Age regrets the sins of life;
Bitter sweet and full of strife.
Yesterdays’ tomorrow gone;
Wait for me I shan’t be long.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She crouches inside her sterile cage,
Wicked green eyes bespectacle a tiny brain;
This is her domain.

I

Ah my dear, do you not realize that the
excrement
Between those bony fingers is not your own?
How can you now atone these thoughts?
Yours is a tiny bastion of despair.
White bitchery beyond compare defends
transparent walls
With solipsistic squalls.
This is your life in solitary grey,
Sounded out in mechanical breaths; one by one.
That greedy tedium
Between the changing of the guard.
Dismay and disrespect eke on
To offer consolation to a dead or dying
hand.

In mellodic and stilted notes,
Sweet uterances of a gorillas’ throat
Console, condole, control.

II

A little learning is indeed a dangerous
thing;
The jealous secrets of a minute mind
Cannot leave its’ pride behind
And embrace the truth alone.
How can you now atone?

Wipe the vomit from the floor,
Drudgery is such a bore;
If this is life there must be more.

The off white cloak conseals a darker heart
And painted eyes set purposes apart,
And even lowly vermin have their dreams
That life in daily tedium oft demeans.
The brutality of reality;
The deformity of conformity,
The banality and insipidity
That make one feel as a whore to life.
What consolation is there in this strife?

Look, the old man in gagging on his
spittle!
I see a tear in his eye.
Perhaps it is a crocodile tear;
Time is passing by.

III

Is there a place within this sad disgrace
Where lofty thoughts of worth may oft
amuse
And cognitive discord may not abuse
That porcelain ego?

Ah, let us take a break from the feculent
air!
The somber tinkle of a coffee spoon,
Methodical, mellodical.
A silent visit to the silver mirror;
The truth is even here I fear.
Soon it will be time to go home.
Let us wash again our hands
And free ourselves from lifes’ demands;
The slimy muck of a porcine life;
How shall you now atone?

Tomorrow comes again, relentless and
vengeful,
Malicious and spiteful,
Plodding and prodding
With toil and torment;
And you a silent prisoner tortured by a
clock.

IV

Look out the window,
See the pretty woman with her child?
Is she really so beguiled?
How can you now atone?
Are these really great and gracious
things you do
To grunt and sweat beside decaying flesh?
Ah, you saw that fur coat on your way to
work
So white and feminine and chic
That men might think you meek.
In just another week,
It could be your disguise to calculate
demise.

Must you change that wretched bed again?
Ah, the consolation is he feels pain,
And so he shall, for just a minute more.

The thought of the smiling lady now returns
And so it burns and grates upon your brain.
She can’t be happy with her life
Being nothing but a wife.

The ego soars, abhors, ignores.
And can you yet atone?

V

And even at night in silent dreams
Amidst the shrill electronic screams
That tortured turmoil lingers and subverts;
Like a cloud of acid rain
Upon a naked brain.
You drift away into convulsive sleep
And yet its blackened silence cannot keep
Those images away,
Bleak and grey,
Lurking and learing,
Besmirching and besmearing.
The doleful gape of a schizophrenic ape;
And can you still atone?

The morning slithers through the window
Like a sated snake.
There must be some mistake.
Perhaps time has deserted you here
Amidst this sterile wasteland
To mock you with the ticking of a clock?

VI

Ah Florence, you can see the sadness that
each day brings
And yet no tears spring from that desert
heart.
Are these emotions really images apart?
The mundane entities and strains;
The futile pleas to reptilian brains
And anthracitic hearts.
Let us take a break from the feculent air!
Soon it will be time to go home.

The sooty night smothers the last rays
of a dying light
And strangles the evening with despair.
Loneliness beyond compare descends with
a somber note.
You raise the razor to your throat
Then carefully shave the stubble from
your face.
Why has life brought you this disgrace?

The crimson curdles in the sink;
Are you finally at the brink?

The morning dawns again, restless and
gnawing,
Scratching and pawing
Like a marasmic rat.
The world has returned in its masquerade
of mundane madness;
And do you yet atone?

VII

What of the dissonance between
yesterdays dreams and now?
Where are the passions of these precious
fruits?
Have you not lived your life as some
stilted sacred cow
Forced but to dine on bitter truths?
What burdens must that fragile ego bear!

Images of the gentle lady again return
And in its’ solace that granite heart fair
yearns
For its’ simple sane seclusions.
It is surely some delusion;
Perpetrated, promulgated, desecrated.
To love, honor and obey
Could only bring dismay
To a cold despotic mind.
Though there are reasons you might find…
That heart that masquerades as being kind
Would bludgeon a hapless infant with
delight.
We must not strike this from our sight.

The visage of the gentle lady lingers on,
Peaceful and serene
A gentle figure by a softly flowing stream,
Where quiet memories linger or convene
To mock in simple beauty seen,
And yet unseen…
As gentle maids may mock a sordid queen.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Fresh flowers for her sable hair
And diamonds bright beyond compare.

Sweet perfume and a gentle hue
To shadow soft her eyes of blue.

A necklace of pink lustrous pearl
And finest silken scarves to furl.

Sapphires, emeralds, rubies bright
To strike her fancy with delight.

And golden bracelets on her wrist,
And eau de vie with just a twist.

But  kinder still for all her pain,
A silver bullet in her brain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I can hear the distant silence
calling; calling.
In the darkened forest, snow
is falling; falling.

Winter fast approaches, it is here,
almost here.
Are you somewhere softly crying,
a tear; a tear?

All the love we shared is over,
it is gone; gone.
Sorrow heavy on my shoulder
lingers on; on.

Soft white silence settles slowly
on the ground; around.
Beckoning to slumber golden,
not a sound; no sound.

Love’s a dream that ends in waking,
or in sleep; sleep.
In soft arms my heart is breaking,
yours to keep, to keep.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.