Sonnet 157

To write for masses or the rarest few;
To penetrate, or keep it floral light?
Full limned, the flowers’ pistil can’t imbue
The pleasure brought by blossoms at first sight.
Yet like the humble bee we are deceived,
Though his deceit for higher purpose sure;
And his reward not perfume but sweet need,
That nourishes his forms with nectar pure;
But in our readings we such worth do find,
That sweet ambrosia that sustains the soul,
Yet deep or superficial, to one kind,
Each finds its food of purpose in this goal.
Still of this plight, my thoughts are often these;
To pollinate for purpose, or appease?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 156

My needs are simple, and my wishes few;
Content within my earthly acred plot,
Green burgeoned fields to daily here purview –
Graineries full with all the life I sought.
Happiest yet to greet the morning sun
Or sing a song unto the rising moon;
Sweet joy to rest, when daily toil is done,
And then to sleep in peace with dreams festooned.
Dear mother earth, you gave to me your best
And I lived surely, coddled in your arms,
For tears of joy and sorrow watered but
The golden flowers of tomorrow’s loam.
To live, to give, to grow and then to die
I thank you nought, but with a heartfelt sigh.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Farm Hijinks

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.

Sonnet 155

Sylvia, sweet and light of heart was she,
A flower garden grew within her breast;
On her dear head, spice scented ebony,
Her silken skin was alabaster blessed;
Dark eyes enchanted with angelic light,
Rose lips did burn with savored honey sweet;
Soft touches tender tingled with delight;
Her pureness did with cherub hearts compete.
By heaven’s grace she wandered to my arms,
And oft in moonlight I did watch her sleep,
My soul immersed in her ethereal charms,
There I entranced by love I could not keep.
Sweet memory is a prison of a kind,
Where love that’s lost may haunt us for all time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 154

For who protects the lowly vegetable?
Societies exist to protect worms;
From humble garden to the torture table,
What rights has he that do not but conform?
All forms of life should fear hypocrisy;
One life one vote, the lonely carrot cries!
No rights assured within democracy,
Odd tyrannies of numbers there apply.
Raised on cruel farms, no freedom to enjoy;
Untimely ripped from roots, soft cries disdained;
Oft singled out yes just because he’s orange
To garnish but the dish of rich and famed.
Sweet carrot, do not e’re give up the fight –
The pure elite will serve you well tonight.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The Butterfly

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.

Sonnet 153

She spurns the hand of man, yet feels scorned,
Displays her cleavage, yet disdains a look;
Swears she is made of truth, yet paints adorn
Her visage like swank cover of a book.
The woman needs at once a larger mirror,
One that purviews perhaps both heart and soul,
A glass most fair, reflecting all that’s clear,
Though truth of course, is not quite near the goal.
Oh, wardress foul, yes mizz hypocrisy!
What victim tears besmirch mascara now;
How many ways to lose virginity,
And yet retain it for some sacred vow?
By candlelight your honeyed guise smelled sweet,
But subject to bright sun, it now does reek.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.