To write for masses, or the rarest few;
To penetrate, or keep it floral light?
Though deeply drawn, a flower’s form can’t show
The sudden joy we feel at first clear sight.
Yet like the humble bee, we are beguiled—
Though fooled, he serves a greater cause for sure;
His prize not scent, but nectar, undefiled
That feeds both force and frame with forage pure;

So in our readings we such worth may find,
The sweet ambrosia that sustains the soul,
Be it deep meaning, or what charms the mind,
Each finds a feast to make their essence whole.
Still of this plight, such thoughts return to tease—
To pollinate for purpose, or appease?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

My needs are simple, and my wishes few;
Content within my earthly acred plot,
Green fields in bloom to daily greet my view,
Granaries filled with fruits of labor wrought.
Happiest yet to greet the morning sun
Or lift my voice unto the rising moon;
Sweet joy to rest when daily toil is done,
Asleep in dreams that morning steals too soon.
Dear Mother Earth, you gave to me your best
And I lived surely, cradled in your arms;
For tears of joy and sorrow, both to bless,
The golden flowers of tomorrow’s loam.
To live, to give, to grow—and then to meekly die—
I thank you naught, but with a heartfelt sigh.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I tossed a chicken from the wall
And watched her flap to break her fall;
She landed and looked up to say
Now child please, just go away!
I took another to the top
And like a stone I let her drop;
Bright crimson comb, a blur of white,
And like the other, landed quite.
I threw a third as if to prove
They could not fly quite like a dove;
In cackled curt cacophony,
She landed proud for all to see.
A pantomime of feathered mirth,
Yet to a child some thoughts of worth;
Better weak wings to break one’s fall,
Than flapping arms when off the wall.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sylvia, sweet and light of heart was she,
A flower garden bloomed within her breast;
Upon her crown, spice-scented ebony,
Her silken skin by alabaster blessed;
Dark eyes enchanted with angelic light,
Rose lips did burn with honeyed rapture sweet;
Soft touches tender tingled sheer delight—
Her virtue did with cherub hearts compete.
By heaven’s grace she wandered to my arms;
I oft in moonlight watched her peaceful sleep,
My soul immersed in her ethereal charms,
Entranced by love I knew not how to keep.
Sweet memory is a prison of a kind,
Where love that’s lost still chains the heart and mind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

For whom, I ask, defends the vegetable?
While worms win rights with lobbyists and terms;
From garden plot to torture table led,
What rights has he, if none but to conform?
All life should fear such blind hypocrisy—
“One life, one vote!” the weeping carrot cries;
Yet justice fails in full democracy,
Where tyrannies of numbers there apply.
In sunless rows they wait their earthly doom,
Untimely ripped from roots—his cries disdained;
Oft singled out because his skin is orange,
Then rudely pared by knives and fully maimed.
Fight on brave root! Stop culinary blight—
The pure elite will serve you well tonight!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

On one clear and fresh spring morning
I sat against a tree,
And spied a pretty butterfly
Which lighted on my knee.
Its’ wings of gossamer splendor
And heavens jewelry.

I fancied there to capture it
And keep it just for me,
But conscience quick betrayed my plan
And warned me sullenly,
That beauty reigns not from a cage
And withers when not free.

A parable was then recalled
Into my memory
That stated that if somethings’ loved
And then fondly released,
That it will soon return to you;
Or such should never be.

Thinking this, I uncupped my hands,
And swept it to the breeze,
And watched it exit from my sight,
Oh, floating merrily.
I waited all the summer long;
Yes, waited patiently.

The butterfly did not return
Though many did I see.
Others perhaps more beautiful,
Adorned exquisitely.
Yes, many pretty butterflies…
But not the one for me.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She shuns the hand of man, yet mourns alone,
Displays her charms, then spurns the glancing eye;
Declares she speaks in truth’s unvarnished tone—
While rouge and powder hint, perhaps, a lie.
She needs a glass to peer beyond the face,
A faithful lens to show the soul entire,
Not one that flatters, veils, or would erase
The dissonance ‘twixt candor and desire.
O masked deceit, your tears may well persuade,
But virtue’s claim grows hollow in disguise;
That purity you oft have sought portrayed,
When vows are praised, distrust is quick to rise.
By candlelight your honeyed mask beguiles;
But sunlight shows what every tongue reviles.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.