Yes, seasons change but not your constant heart,
Now in my autumn years I see this so,
Relentless change is etched on nature’s chart
And time may come—but time must surely go,
But no, not you, steadfast and yet unshaken!
Against the vagaries of time you stand,
And though, in words, your measure can’t be taken,
I count you still my lover and my friend;
For in glad life, no greater gift is this
Than love’s sweet pledge to weather callous time,
No memory is as strong as love’s first kiss—
Your toil, your trust, your truth lives in this rhyme.
Though changing seasons may yet squander life-
Could words attest…you’ll ever be my wife.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Midst blackest hours of a hideous night
I here do sit and contemplate my fate,
For in such hour there is no darker plight—
When gods and demons both collaborate.
But yet what mortal soul should beg such wrath
Or such fierce counsel here itself convene?
What mighty sin yet calls me here to task?
What maxim could a humble life demean?
Perhaps I’m but a pawn in some great game
Of chance, the rules of which remain unknown,
And winning thus, what could contenders gain
Were legions great the paltry to o’erthrow?
Yet what to ask when gods or worlds collide
Save for swift death; then bravely step aside.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Black lines! Trite stirrings of a hapless muse
Still dare attempt to call in abject rhyme
A fitting tribute, as if Orpheus
Himself had writ them in some ancient time;
But no, mean verse moves not the savage heart
Nor sways the will of dread Persephone;
Yet as a lover I must play my part
And plead my case ‘gainst cosmic enmity.
These words by mortal hand were sadly writ
And clearly thus no godly graces claim—
Yet Gods and Graces may themselves commit
To verse and rhyme that sing sweet love’s refrain;
But if these words can yet my love, entrance—
What care I then if rocks and trees can dance?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

If I have praised enough, why praise you more
That men should know how rare a flow’r you be;
That doing so might thus increase your store
When those with eyes alone can clearly see?
Is such proud praise for me or yet for you—
That in sweet words I do possess and show
My pow’r to captivate and there accrue
My own sweet praise whereon my own plot grows?
Be sure, my love, these words stand as a truth
Whose calculations are for you alone;
And though such vanity may mar loves’ worth,
A love unlauded seems a love unknown.
Still, radiant blossom worn on stiff lapel
Does grace the wearer more than words can tell.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.