© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Yours is a beauty that shall live in rhyme,
As ageless and timeless as those before;
In poet’s ink your memory reigns sublime,
If the hand that writ, is here excused compare.
Some speak of Nefertiti whose gaunt face
Stares out beyond the shifting Nubian sand,
And others yet, of Helen’s Trojan grace—
A murkish myth that epic Homer penned.
But relics of past beauty clearly show
In bronze, in gypsum, or in marbled stone,
The lengthened shadow that will often grow
From the sculpted lyrics of an antique song.
Thus, when these words are read in times to come—
No fairer beauty ever graced the sun.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The ivory towers
Are feathered bowers
Where pompous asses sit.

With nose held high
They scan the sky
Convincing of their wit.

But what they’ve learned
Should best be burned
For good rare comes of it.

It’s to the man
With tinkers’ hands
That great ideas are knit.

When the lucres gone
They soon move on
And no one cares a whit.

So be aware
Where air gets rare
The act is but a skit.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I do not want to see her anymore
I do not want to see her
I do not want to see
I do not want to
I do not want
I do not
I do

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

On this sweet day, as children laugh and play,
At times nearby, content beneath your gaze,
And others, roaming wide and far away;
While memory drifts through time’s obscuring haze.
Such moments bring a comfort, warm and deep,
Your heart afire with love’s enduring  flame—
To stir the soul until you softly weep,
Still musing on a dear and cherished name.
The labors borne through love and sacrifice
Live on in those you’ve raised to bloom and grow;
These dreams are gold—beyond all earthly price,
That wealth of heart that only mothers know;
A mother’s love is love beyond compare—
The sweetest flower grown in heavens’ air.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When the sun has bleached my colors
And the stars are growing dim,
When my weary back is bending
And my hair is growing thin.

When I am no longer roving
And I hunker by the hearth,
When no distant ports are calling
And sweet home is now my berth.

When the stag stands on the hillside,
Now unafraid to roar;
And the salmon swims the river,
Unmolested by my lure.

When the snow filled mountain valleys
Are not christened by my tracks,
And dark distant jungle trails;
Are but seldom now cut back.

When my JR rifle’s silent
And my pack lays on the floor;
When the golden past safaris
Are but memories evermore —

Though the sun still rises early,
And I know I’ll seldom roam;
I’ll yet quench the quest within me,
‘Til my father calls me home.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Not much of a poet was I
But I could make you laugh and cry –
So what else does it matter?

When I look at your visage fair
Where none I see that could compare
Then what else does it matter?

When cherished life is so fleeting
And soft clasped hands set hearts beating;
Then what else does it matter?

If these words could transcribe our love
And lift it up to stars above;
Then what else does it matter?

What’s meant to be is you and me
On the wind, in the sky forever;
A love that lives and ever gives –

And that is what truly matters!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Where were you when I most needed your grace,
When acrid tribulations held me bound;
The devil gripped me tight in his embrace,
And everywhere, pure evil did surround—
You turned away in my most desperate hour,
Or so it seemed—you did not try to call;
A simple note—so well within your power—
Your silent absence stifling like a pall.
I held you dear—a true and loyal friend,
Stalwart, bold, unshaken through and through;
Where trust and kindness sure would never end—
A love we would not ever need renew.
But I was wrong. You did not truly care:
A “friend” indeed—when weather waxes fair.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.