© 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 greater 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 special day, as your children play,
At times near and dear at your gentle feet
And yet, at other times, far, far away;
Cherished thoughts will wander there, and so seek
That comforting reassurance that lives
In the heart of every mother, heaven born,
And, to that breast of pure love ever gives,
Solace, in the knowledge that, safe and warm,
Labors of love and sacrifice live on,
In precious unique forms that thrive and grow
Still more dear; even after you are gone-
Replete with sweetest memories they shall know;
A mother’s love is love beyond compare;
The sweetest flower to grow 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 last 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.

So where were you when I needed you most,
When acrid tribulations had me bound;
The devil seemed to have me by the throat
And evil did, in harshest forms surround.
You did forsake me in my time of need,
Or so it seemed, not deigning but to call;
I know you were aware, my plight to heed,
Your silent absence stifling like a pall.
I truly thought of you as a dear friend,
Hardly capricious, honest through and through;
Where trust and kindness sure would never end
And fondest memories ever would accrue;
But fortune smiled, here, ending all my pain,
Luckier still, I have you back again!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.