‘Poetry is dead,’ she said, and turned away;
How could it be, I thought—all precious verse
Wrapped now in linen, nothing more to say,
Now carried off in some black nameless hearse?
Not yesterday, she lived and loved and gave
To empty hearts and souls, sweet smiles and tears,
And now to lie, cold, speechless in some grave—
Confirming thus the worst of poet’s fears?
We must take up that precious pen she held;
We cannot let her fade into the night
Her spark remains, her fire must be felt—
Each bard must rise to keep her spirit bright;
Without her light, then every heart is blind,
And we accept the dumbing of mankind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Where do I want to go?
Sometimes I never know,
For when I am right here,
I want to be o’er there;
And when I am o’er there,
I want to be right here,
Perhaps I’ll never know,
Exactly where to go.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

We went for a walk in that cold night rain—
I couldn’t bear to sit with her by fire;
I said “I’m very happy that you came
To help us see our way through this quagmire.
Each letter told me that you were still true,
I had no sign your love had slipped away;
I clung to every word, I’m sure you knew—
Your love the hope I lived on, day to day.
Each day I died for truth—you lived for lies,
Please do not whisper you did this for me;
I served beside brave men who gave their lives
For love and honor: hope and dignity.
‘Twere better that I’d eaten there some lead,
Then to return and find that I was dead.”

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

“Now dad, don’t buy me dresses anymore,”
She said, with hips akimbo, stern of voice;
“The paper says I must even the score,
And I deserve fair treatment—like the boys;
I want to dress in trousers, just like lads,
To drink and smoke and swear like grown men do;
I want to laugh and sing—to never more be sad,
With pride and power, privilege, just like you.”
She seemed to court derision in her stance,
But I disarmed her with a simple smile:
“Do you recall when Mom and I would dance…
And will you let me walk you down the aisle?”
The seeds of discontent, I understand—
Must beauty now become this beast called man?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I spied a tufted titmouse in a tree,
Against the backdrop of a winter grey;
He blended in so near, so perfectly,
Except the splash of peach—a bright nosegay.
He took no heed of frost nor frozen blight
As he flit lightly, branch to crooked branch.
And as he moved he kept me in his sight,
Each move I made, he tossed a furtive glance.
I said, “Sweet titmouse where will you now go,
A blizzard’s near—or so the skies appear?
All this, all life soon girded up with snow,
And you but feathered frail—of this I fear.”
He soldiered on, not heeding my behest—
In solemn grey with orange emblazoned chest.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Selena, goddess of the silver moon,
Why do you gaze upon me from afar?
Your pallid beauty makes all lovers swoon
And long I’ve dreamed to travel where you are.
Last night I saw you in a saffron dress,
So coyly nestled ‘mid the purple trees;
Soft peeking at me, daring to say yes,
Your swollen bosom, begging to say please;
But you were merely teasing me it seems,
Much as you have a thousand nights before,
Caressing me with tempting vestal beams
Then rising to coquettish heights of yore.
Sweet torment thus, that men may lose their minds
—But when I sleep—I’ll have you in due time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I was always thrilled by her sweet letters,
And when I found a scrap I would write back;
I’d lie and say that things were getting better,
That victory was on the nearer track.
In all I wrote I said I’d ever love her—
She would write back and say that she loved me;
Before too long that we would be together,
And raise that perfect oft dreamed family;
But love and war both seem so never ending,
And dreams are oft but mist in burning sun;
One day the letters that she had been sending
Stopped—save for one that said that we were done.
I read the note and pondered while I sat,
That men might die for love as blithe as that.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

We shared a piece of chocolate in the trench,
The very last prized morsel which I had;
It tasted sweet, despite death’s bitter stench,
And for a sweeter moment—he looked glad.
He was sixteen, like others, lied to join;
Fresh faced, strong limbed and eager there to serve.
I had taken him beneath my battered wing,
To steady when the child had lost his nerve.
I stood the elder, being twenty-one,
And my experience spanned the years of three;
I was the father, he much like the son,
And I would die for him—as he for me.
I had seen others like him come and go—
But Lord—not him—please,Lord, not ever; no.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She wears a poppy on her dress each bleak
November—Like a dash of blood upon
Her breast, and so in homage thus to seek
Solace and remember, faces now gone,
Who gave their precious red for the great cause
That fades now like that sound of distant guns…
In minds of some—but to others gives great pause;
Those who’ll not forget the fallen mothers’ sons.
Our children have long grown and left, and she
Did not remarry, though she ever could;
I promised her that I would never leave
And so my ghost beside her, ever stood—
Bound to her with a love few men will know,
As hers to me, that crimson spot does show.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

“Over the top”, he said—and so we did,
Hot lead whizzed by our heads like angry bees,
John took one in the chest and down he slid;
I took one low and dropped down to my knees.
Through smoke and haze we saw futility—
No man a coward, but everyone afraid;
The trench, ten yards behind, I still could see,
Its yawning darkness like a welcomed grave.
I crawled behind some burnt-out shattered stump
And found some paper in a pocket dry;
I dipped a splinter in my blood and wrote,
Steeling myself, as not to shake or cry.
My darling, when you read this, I’ll be gone—
Sorry to leave so soon. Please raise our son.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.