Should some sagacious creature read these words
In future eons, granting earth still turns;
Perhaps he finds my writings quite absurd
And on a heap of ash my thoughts shall burn;
But yet perhaps he finds them quaint and true
And thinks perchance some dull intelligence
Reached forth from time, his conscience to imbue
With measured thoughts of when and why, and whence.
Thus in the future, if true love shall last,
And if two sexes still embrace in dance,
Through thoughts on you he’ll glimpse idyllic past
And marvel at the bliss of true romance.
Like Paris and Helen, we shall vanquish time;
Ensconced in verse; immutable in rhyme.

 

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

For what is yet more powerful than death
Which steals the life from every living soul?
All creatures born of dust must feel his breath
As sure as spring’s lush blooms meet winter’s snow.
What god of love concedes to this dark reign
That every living thing be born to die;
That all the precious brood the earth shall bring
Traverse its’ vale of tears with death but nigh?
What hope forged cross of promise must life bear,
Not knowing heav’n or hell be destiny;
And which corporeal joys must we forbear,
To flout foul death and live eternally?
What mighty theorems thrive on proofs so thin
That men brave death to know what heav’n they’re in?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Deceit in love is yet more foul than pain,
It is an evil that devours the soul;
Dark Morpheus can make base suffering wane;
No potion yet can anguished hearts console.
No tears more bitter than of broken hearts;
No salve to soothe their aching misery;
No words of solace can sweet hope impart,
Save somber prayers beseeching sympathy.
When potions fail and callous gods decline,
Beseeching prayers lay slain at heaven’s gate,
Malevolence all precious joys entwine,
And life assumes the blackest pall of fate.
True love, despite of wounds, lives ever on,
But love not true, so smit, is ever gone.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Did you dream me, or do I truly live,
For my thoughts dwell on nothing but your grace;
All else seems sun blanched early morning mist
Through which I see the shining of your face;
Yet what etheral vapors hold me here
And blind me to the sight of nought but you?
What sweet nepenthe formed of heavens tears
Did I imbibe, all longings to subdue?
But if I am a figment of your mind,
A whimsy of capricious consciousness,
I pray we never waken here to find
My dream within your dream no longer is;
Still if I am a child of your brain,
I’ll wait in earnest ’til you sleep again.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sweet Sylvia, where does your heart now roam,
What pleasured lands do you now grace with glee?
Can your bright smile still blind the golden sun,
And stun the souls of those so blessed to see?
Does your soft voice still echo distant songs,
There half remembered, half forgotten too,
Soft fading strains when rousing strains have gone,
That sooth and linger in the drawing room;
And does the moon still gild your raven hair,
Do doting stars still dance with crazed delight
When you, sweet summer sylph do take the air,
And float through silvered gardens in the night?
I know that ever where on earth you stand,
All eyes are one, your spectacle so grand.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When time has weighed its’ measure on your eyes,
Pronouncing judgement on the passing years;
When paints and potions cannot here disguise,
The time worn furrows of your bitter tears.
What truthful glass would yet defend you now?
Commute the sentence that just time proclaims?
For if that glass your truth of heart would show,
No clemency would that shrewd writ contain.
The winds of lust and leisure bore you on,
While cloaks of layered lies did you surround;
From truth and love and prayers you did abscond,
Vile credo thus has brought you to this end.
Despite brushed pigments, time has not been kind,
For life so lived leaves more than truth behind.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.