Critics will judge these words in times to come,
With bitter tongues, maligning my poor art;
Though strident voices may yet wear me numb
They cannot dull the pride within my heart;
Pride for the love I’ve ever held for you;
Pride for your loyalty, which honors me;
Pride for the iron faith that saw us through
The very worst of fate’s adversity.
Yes critics do their part, as critics must;
As jealousy shall shadow joyous gain;
It’s in dear love that we shall place our trust;
True love as one, shall never thus be twain.
Disparage then these words with all their might;
Even in mean verse, true love will yet shine bright!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I have crossed vast oceans of time for you,
From Olduvai to burning Arab sands,
Across Ukranian 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 and duty’s course to run;
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 here and ever after;
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 self same child;
What twisted pleasures sate your sinful needs?
What wicked webs now wrought, do 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 what I have said;
Words are but words, and can yet be reclaimed-
‘Tis not the worth that precious tears be shed
O’er utterance here that leads me to this shame;
Shame not for words, but that your heart does grieve;
Grief not for words, but what you felt they meant;
Shame but to see stained droplets on your sleeve,
Grief now for me to haste my recompense.
Tears that do sting, but not my woeful eyes;
Nay, bitter tears that score 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 hurt; now here a salve should be.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.