For heaven sprinkled silver on your hair,
I glimpsed it first, and only yesterday;
That sable brown, so rich beyond compare,
Slight glistered as with snow that will not stay.
At first I thought it not but playful light’s
Soft dappled shadows, that with aspects change;
That from a nearer view would flee my sight,
And thus my musings there would be allayed.
But it was silver still on nearer view,
Soft lunar auguries of passing time,
Sure not the auric gilt pure hearts accrue
But well earned bounty from a life sublime.
Argentic touched, I not once thought you old,
For your sweet silver is but here my gold.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Could beauty dwell in ink, preserved by rhyme,
This humble tribute to your heavenly grace—
Though ink will fade, may beauty ever shine
From words that craft the verse your memories trace.
Some speak of beauties past—of looks most fair,
Whose smiles might cause sweet Orpheus to sing;
Of eyes so bright, with stars they would compare,
Aglow with all the rapture beauty brings.
Of love, all poets’ pens confabulate—
Their cursive tales defying Time’s dread laws;
But had they known of you, they’d surely state:
“No need to stretch the sweetness of her cause;”
Though no mere words could ever frame your worth,
From faded ink, your truth will yet shine forth.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I plucked a poem for you that doleful day
Red and redolent of love’s sweet perfume,
My gift to you, with nothing left to say—
When soft recited, love suffused the room.
I gilded it with dew drop silver tears
That ran down sallow cheeks bereft of love,
Those diamond emblems that all lover’s fear
As I beseeched the very gods above—
But gods were silent, you already gone,
Your crumpled letter stained upon my knee;
With nothing left, save why to muse upon…
And if my love-torn heart would ever heal.
Perhaps in time to come you’ll change your mind,
My dearest, ever sweetest, valentine.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, those who read these lines in times to come
May doubt the measures I have scribed in words,
For lovers oft of loves do gift such sum
That their lovestruck assessment seems absurd;
Which beauty has the hair of fine spun gold?
Whose cheeks out-blush the tender light of spring?
Whose voice sounds sweeter than the warbling notes
That Philomel the nightingale sings?
But your sweet grace transcends all written verse,
Your countenance a standard for all time;
When pure words fail, hyperbole seems truth
That captures beauty’s essence in a rhyme.
May those that doubt gaze once upon your face—
Dumbstruck in sight no words exist to trace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Shakespeare! Were I to meet you at some pub
And share a pint with you and dear old Ben!
In simple conversations fancies rub—
Perchance pontificate upon some poem;
Discuss the merit of non rhyming verse
Or yet the workings of a play not done,
Or hear you weighing wit in your rehearse,
And have you scrutinize my own love’s song.
Together we might mock stiff Ben’s satire,
More cruelly yet, rude radix laying brick;
No doubt his wit he would not there retire,
Reminding, he was poet laureate.
Where but in dreams this precious scene may live,
And I rejoice in joy its pleasures give!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Were that love could be squeezed into a flower
Or paper token, my dear valentine,
Then in this verse I might wield all love’s power
To keep you here beside me—held in rhyme;
But how to shrink vast heaven onto paper,
Condense the great wide oceans unto ink,
Distill full bounty of all life-long labor;
For this is sure the might that it would take.
True love is ever daunting, never simple;
My love for you exceeds all hope and time;
A love like this would make dear Eros tremble—
No living art, nor truth, might it confine .
No symbols borne of man may ring as true,
As those soft spoken words of I love you.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

This love is an affliction of the mind,
With fever burning hotter than a flame;
Hallucinations through my thoughts unwind
Conspiring with obsession, fierce, untamed.
Your visage haunts me every day and night;
Your lithe form, pure vexation in my dreams;
A smile that sears me with ethereal light—
Yet seraph touches cooler than moonbeams.
Selena—when at last will you be mine?
When will these arms enfold you close and true?
Will all my prayers be answered in due time
And will I mend at last in love with you?
Sweet madness does my heart and soul immure;
For you—my dread disease, and yet my cure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Snowflakes ride my eyelashes playfully,
Their kin now drifting on the forest floor;
My path, once clear, no longer there to see
And I from home, yet still six miles or more;
Shaking snowcakes off my boots, I trundle on,
I must return before the fall of night,
The trail now blurred, in darkness will be gone,
And waxing cold will follow waning light.
She’ll be surprised to see me, this I’m sure;
I did not tell her I would leave today,
I trust she waits beside the hearth’s warm lure,
Dreaming sweet reunion, the coming day;
Then, home at dusk; the last mile took the most;
The windows dark, a strange horse at the post.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Selena’s silver smile slips sensuously,
Ever engulfing each and everyone,
Lighting lost lands for lovers and love’s lonely;
Evoking echoes of Elysium.
Naked nocturnal nymph nighs noiselessly,
Ageless, alluring always ascending,
Silently sailing swart celestial seas,
Meting madness ‘mongst moonstruck mortal men;
Inviting inquests in immorality,
Leaving lovers languishing longingly;
Ensconced in errant erotic emperies;
Stealthily stealing simple sanity
Absconding amidst argentic alchemy;
Taunting, teasing, titillating, tempting
Men and maidens mired in moonlit mayhem,
Ever exalting, Ever exempting.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Long evenings caught in cruel Canadian cold,
Alone, she’d sit in quiet by the fire,
And darn and mend our clothing, then would fold
Shirts, pants and socks before she would retire;
Each morning she would then awake at three
To riddle coals before the morning rise
Then sleep ‘til six, our breakfast to o’er see
And send us off to school with warm goodbyes.
We were children and did not ever know
That we were poor, until we went to school,
And felt the sneer at the dear hand-sewn clothes
My mother made with worn out lonely tools.
These patches here are badges set to prove
Your ignorance, if not my mother’s love.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.