I did not write for money,
I did not write for fame;
I wrote for love a plenty,
And much of it in vain.

I wrote for truth and beauty;
For they are much the same.
I wrote ‘cause ‘twere my duty,
And I bear all the blame.

Yes many lines for you dear;
In ink on paper plain
That all might know your worth here,
And some might know your name.

 

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry is not born of love, but pain;
The silent echoes of man’s suffering,
Its rhythmic beats, a wounded heart’s refrain,
A fallen angel’s mournful reckoning.
To suffer and to think is but to grow;
To bare, to share, to care is but to see,
In ways no savage brute will ever know—
And is the essence of humanity.
These silent words have power to touch the soul,
To cross the void and reach a kindred mind;
These symbols born of ardor meant to soothe
The common trials that afflict mankind.
If words bring solace, may these ever stand
And I bestow small comfort, pen in hand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Let me unbind the clasp that hides your grace,
Loose all  your hair, let auburn embers  fall;
While trembling fingers trace your tender face,
As your embrace does offer up your all;
And let me lay you on red satin down—
There on your bosom let my cheek find rest;
Where whispered words that only lovers own
Caress my soul as with your honeyed breath;
Let rose-red lips find mine in passion’s thirst,
Your kisses flushed with sweet Madeira wine,
ForI, lust-drunk, shall wander o’er the  earth
This night of ardor, ever on my mind.
How sweet forbidden love—my Magdalen—
Yet when the morning dawns, what of us then?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The unseen, distant guns in silence fall—
Time now for me to reckon with my pain;
And next to me my mate who gave his all,
Face down, in puddles from a recent rain.
I lift my coat to see if blood has stopped,
To see how much of my young flesh is gone;
Aghast, I find my rifle has been dropped—
Into the mud—my blood now pooling on.
The gun on which my very life depends
Corrupted now by earth admixed with blood;
Its barrel choked by dirt it did defend—
Perhaps no more to serve my mortal good.
Mud, blood, my friend—and still I smile to see
A bird in flight, soft singing sweet to me.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I shall inscribe your song in love’s own book,
That others, in their time, may rise and sing;
That hearts and minds to melody are took,
For beauty is the lay in everything;
So shall they marvel at a song so rare—
Not matched since Orpheus first touched the lyre;
For none I know could ever quite compare,
Though muses’ dreams of grace and love conspire;
In crescendo, they shall know your truth,
In full allegro, they shall watch you dance;
In harmony, they’ll marvel at your youth;
In dolce, they shall sway in sweet romance;
Thus will I mark your essence in sweet rhyme—
And so enshrine your beauty for all time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Here, in the cruel clutch of winter’s grip,
I warm myself with embers drawn from you;
The eye, the cheek, the brow, the ruby lip—
Could melt the coldest heart with but a view.
And as I gaze upon his frozen might,
I see proud summer branches bowed with snow;
Your countenance redeems this barren sight
And softly whispers that his reign must go.
Yet you are still so far away from me,
As distant as forgotten dreams of spring;
And through the frigid forest I can see
Alluring shadows that such reveries bring.
These precious thoughts of you shall swathe my heart,
‘Til you return—and ice and snow depart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

My Selena—by the light of the moon,
Looks fairer far than sun’s dominion grand;
For moonlight is the truest lover’s boon
When velvet darkness cloaks the dream-soaked land.
Bright points of heaven peek ‘round clouds above—
Dark jealous clouds that shroud those silver beams,
As if to cast aspersions upon love,
And dim the glow that true-born beauty gleams.
Ephemeral shadows—let me steal a kiss
Till we again bathe in that argent light,
Then soon endure another cloud eclipse,
And find once more a tender, sweet delight.
Would that this moonlit night should ever last,
And I, your beauty, here and ever, clasp.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Ah, but to sleep, to close my eyes and dream
Of you, when distance keeps us two apart;
To think that shuttered eyes can make it seem
That you are here beside me in the dark.
O what a blessing of the mind this is—
That dreams can be a haven for sweet love!
That your pure grace within my mind may live,
Is sure a precious gift from God above.
Then let me bid you now good night, my dear,
And pray your dreams are ever sweet as mine;
That moon-drenched thoughts may both our spirits steer
And stardust magic keep our love aligned.
Now let me make one wish upon a star—
That you are ever with me, near or far.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When life is worn and age has stooped the frame,
Men gaze upon the earth with tempered eyes
And see their lives as candles spent in flame,
Or lost in chase of faithless butterflies.
Oh, could the world reclaim that youthful lore ,
When every pulse beat sang in sweet delight—
When hope was wine, and courage knew no shore,
And dawn the torch to rout both death and night.
True wisdom hails from foresight steeped in years—
That dread great leveler of all mortal dreams,
Whose Midas touch redeems our grief and fears,
And burnishes the past till gold fair gleams.
So life exalts where time and fortune meet—
‘Twixt fear of Hell and hope of Heaven sweet.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

A poet does not write—he only dreams,
Rendering vivid images in ink;
His readers, moved, may ponder what he means
And oft, still more, what hidden thoughts he thinks.
One moment, scenes of death and wretchedness,
Now love and life enshrined in fleeting days;
Then peace and harmony and endless bliss—
Or yet the sight of Hell’s eternal blaze.
But may his writing ever be of truth—
May his heart stay steadfast unto his creed;
And may his pen stroked stirrings there induce,
Some poignant thought that measures word or deed.
So blind ink stirs what inner visions gleam,
To paint a world that is, or yet may seem.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.