For heaven sprinkled silver on your hair,
I saw it first yet just the other day;
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,
Those dappled shadows that with aspects shift,
That from a nearer view would flee my sight,
And that my conscience there would not be miffed.
But it was silver still on nearer view,
Argentic auguries of passing time,
Sure not the auric gilt pure hearts accrue
Nor yet just bounty for a life sublime.
Yet silver touched, I not once thought you old,
For your sweet silver is but here my gold.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Could beauty live in ink etched here in 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 could make the hearts of poets sing,
Of eyes so bright, with stars they would compare,
Replete with all the joys that beauty brings.
Of love, all poets’ pens confabulate,
Their beauties rare, bereft of mortal flaws;
But if they knew of you, they sure would state:
‘No need to stretch the sweetness of her cause;’
Though words do not exist to frame your worth,
From fading 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 read aloud, love wafted through 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
And I with nought but why to ponder on,
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 more splendent than first blush of spring?
Whose voice sounds sweeter than the warbled 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 a 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,
There I rejoice in joy it’s 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 these lines I might wield all love’s power
To keep you here beside me for all time;
But how to shrink vast heaven onto paper,
Condense the great wide oceans unto ink,
Distill full bounty of all earthen labor –
For this is sure the might that it would take;
True love is ever daunting, never simple;
My love for you exceeds all mortal bounds;
A love like this would make dear Eros tremble
And thus no mortal art could it impound.
No symbols borne of man may ring as true,
As those soft spoken saying, I love you.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

This love is an affliction without end,
Replete with fevers hotter than a fire;
Hallucinations through my mind do wend
And with obsessive thoughts of you, conspire.
Your countenance does haunt me day or night;
Your lithe form, pure vexation in my dreams;
Your smile, fair burning with angelic light;
Seraphlike touches, softer than moonbeams.
Selena dearest, when will you be mine?
When will I ever hold you in my arms?
Will all my prayers be answered in due time
And will I bask contented in your charms?
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 bretheren filling up the forest floor;
My path, once clear, no longer there to see
And I from home, yet still six miles or more;
Shaking snow cakes off my feet I trundle on,
I must get back 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 will be sitting by the fire
Planning 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 and then fold
Shirts, pants and socks before she would retire;
Each morning she would then awake at three
To stoke the 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 derision for the precious 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.