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,
It’s rhythmic beats, a wounded heart’s refrain,
Or yet perhaps, a muse’s blithering.
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.
There silent words have power to touch the soul,
To cross the void and reach a kindred mind;
Sweet ardor such in symbols but to soothe
Shared tribulations that afflict mankind.
If words give solace may these ever stand
And I provide small comfort, pen in hand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Now let me help you with that stubborn clasp,
Untie your hair and let burnt auburn fall;
Let not your wanton eyes here have to ask,
As warm embrace does offer up your all;
And let me lay you on red satin down,
Slow running fingers cross white timid breasts,
Now let me whisper sweetly, soft and low,
As your moist hallowed reaches I caress;
And may rose pouting lips have want of mine,
And may my cheek fair gently brush your face;
Your kisses reminiscent of fine wine,
Our undulating forms black shadows trace.
How sweet forbidden love, my Magdalen,
And 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 focus on 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 check if blood has stopped,
To see how much of my young flesh is gone;
Aghast in horror, to see my gun has dropped
Into the mud on which my blood lies 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 earthly good.
Mud, blood, my friend, and yet I smile to see;
A bird in flight, soft singing sweet to me.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I shall write your song in the book of love
That others may in times to come there sing;
And in sweet verse your beauty I shall prove
For beauty is a trill to everything;
And they will marvel at a song so rare,
Not equaled since fair Orpheus did write;
For with your beauty, none I’m sure compare,
Though muses pens sweet words of love bedight;
And in crescendo they will know your truth,
And in allegro they will see you dance;
In harmony they’ll marvel at your worth;
In dolce too they’ll sway in sweet romance;
To capture your quintessence in a rhyme –
And here immure your beauty for all time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Here in the cruel clutch of winter’s grip,
I warm myself with precious thoughts of you;
The eye, the cheek, the brow, the ruby lip
Could melt the coldest heart, with but a view!
So as I gaze out at his frozen might
And see proud summer branches bent with snow
Your countenance fills up this barren sight;
And as spring’s smile avers, his reign must go.
But you are still so far away from me,
As distant as the nearest thoughts of spring,
And yet within the frigid forest I see
Warm shadows that this reverie does bring;
These shadowed 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 far more radiant than any sun’s command;
For moonlight ever is a lover’s boon
When velvet darkness cloaks the dream soaked land.
Bright points of heaven shine ‘twixt clouds above,
Rude jealous clouds that steal soft silver beams,
As if to cast aspersions on sweet love,
And denigrate the light true beauty gleams;
Ephemeral shadows let me steal a kiss
Until again we bathe in silver light,
And soon endure another cloud’s eclipse,
And yet again, another sheer delight!
Oh 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.
Oh what a blessing of the mind this is,
That dreams can be a refuge for sweet love,
That your pure heart can in my brain fair 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 can both our hearts immure
And star dust magic keep our love aligned;
And let me make one wish upon a star;
That you are ever with me, near or far.

 

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When the core of life is worn, old men bent,
Look on the aging earth with wizened eye
And wonder if their youth was fairly spent,
As they embrace their bygones with a sigh.
Oh that the great wide world was young again,
That youthful passion surged with every beat;
When songs of life were nought but joy’s refrain
And every challenge met, would know defeat!
True wisdom is but foresight steeped in time,
That dread great leveler to the dreams of men,
Whose simple touch youths’ flourish does begrime;
No mortal born yet won a race with him.
How life plays out lies much ‘twixt time and fate;
But squandered time is often man’s estate.

 

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

A poet does not write, he only dreams,
Capturing vivid images in ink;
And those that read oft wonder what he means
And yet perhaps more often, what he thinks.
One moment here of death and wretchedness,
Another yet of life and love enshrined,
Of peace and harmony and endless bliss
And next of hapless wights in chains confined.
But may his writing ever be of truth;
May he remain all faithful to his creed;
May with his pen stroked stirrings there induce,
Some poignant thought that measures word or deed.
Thoughts in blind ink poetic pens bedight,
That words in harmony may give us sight.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.