Let critics judge these words in years to come,
With bitter tongues, maligning all my art;
Though jeering voices strive to strike me dumb,
They cannot dull the pride within my heart—
Pride for the love I’ve ever held for you,
Pride for your faith that ever honors me;
Pride for the steadfast strength that saw us through
The darkest turns of fate’s adversity.
Yes, critics do their part—as critics must;
And envy clouds the sight of others’ gain;
In love alone we place our truest trust—
For souls thus joined shall never part again.
So let them scorn these lines with all their might;
Even in humble verse, true love shines bright.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I have crossed vast oceans of time for you,
From Olduvai to burning Arab sands,
Across Ukrainian Steppes I wandered too;
By Khazar fires I warmed my frozen hands.
I swam the Volga to join Gorm the Old,
Pushed prow with William on Pevensey’s shore;
At pilgrimage in Yorkshire I stood bold;
For Plantagenet, the whitest rose I wore.
And you, proud daughter of the rising sun,
From war and wisdom, soul of hammered steel—
A lord to serve till duty’s path be done,
Wisteria plain, to whom all others kneel.
Your journey strayed ‘neath oriental skies—
Now I sojourn ‘neath oriental eyes.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

So now you do return from god knows where—
Transcendent love, your myth, your cold hereafter;
To jilted me—love scorned and unaware—
Left nurse and nanny to your latest bastard.
Your eyes arrest me: shock and sad dismay;
What selfish purpose merits this return?
Have you but come to pick our scabs again,
To stoke deserted fires that in him burn?
What cruel love do you purport to feel?
You love not me, nor yet your selfsame child;
What twisted pleasures do your sins reveal—
What wicked webs you weave to fools beguile.
Leave now, and never darken this stout door—
And may you ever be the devil’s whore.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What does it grieve you, for the words I’ve said?
They’re but warm breath that should not leave a stain—
‘Tis not their worth that bitter tears be shed,
But for the hurt that gives my heart such shame;
Not shame for words, but that your heart does grieve;
Grief not for speech, but what you feared they meant—
Ashamed, I see stained sorrow on your sleeve,
And grieve now too, in heartfelt recompense.
Tears that do sting—but not my woeful eyes—
Nay, biting tears that scour my heart and soul;
A pain as if a thousand jagged knives
Did cleave my flesh unto the very bone.
I beg forgiveness, hence on bended knee—
That words did wound—now here a salve should be.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.