One hundred years from Yeats, and still I cry,
Reading old notes drawn deep from memory,
A voice hewn sure, too strong to ever die,
A heart worn raw by endless wind and sea.
His view from crow’s nest or from mountain’s peak,
And far below calm seas or riotous land,
Clear eyes that gazed upon the soul’s retreat,
So chronicled in verse by pen in hand.
From darkness mute, to speak with voice of light
There casting moving shadows on blank walls,
A show of angst or scenes of pure delight;
That life in light or shadow may extol.
Broad voice grown richer with the passing years,
To lift up hearts with joy, or drown in tears.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I kissed her then as if it were the first—
Dry, quivering lips too tense to tarry;
Heart in my throat, I kissed her as I durst,
Her shuttered eyes I watched with gaze so wary;
By truth alone, she was the first I’d kissed—
She sensed it so, “close your eyes”, she chided;
With heart fair set to burst within my breast,
I pressed her lips again—eyes closed, abided.
An old man passing by seemed fair amused,
“Kiss her as if it were the very last”,
He said, “Destiny is not to be presumed”;
The warm smile on his wizened face quick passed.
He left me with a debt I’ve ever owed:
A kiss is no mere kiss where love’s bestowed.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I hear a distant church bell toll,
On sullen cheeks fresh tears do roll;
Too young to pass, I oft ask why,
God granted leave to one still prime.

In passing winds I still can hear,
Her gentle voice both light and clear;
I see her face in stars above,
Her soul uprisen on wings of doves.

I feel her touch in zephyrs soft,
Her gentleness in clouds aloft,
And when her tears come down in rain
To bless my soul; I feel her pain;

But then a rainbow yon I see,
A smile to show she thinks of me,
As ever I do think of her;
In timeless love, two hearts endure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

You scorned me since I could not be possessed,
For I was born beneath broad, endless skies—
To hail sunrise in east—sunset in west;
I wandered meadows like the clouds on high.
At night, beneath a brooding yellow moon,
Heard wolves compete in forlorn lonesome calls,
Soft-serenaded by lamenting loons,
Or then afar, by lowing cattle bawls;
But you were every inch a city lass,
Born with a clock in both your heart and soul,
Fair-coddled by tall walls of clay and glass,
All measured worth defined by golden tolls.
I hope you find a heart true to your ends,
As mine roams free on brazen prairie winds.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me—
What fortune lies within pert petals dropped?
Why none, of course, save in the one still free,
Clinging to that stem soon to be tossed.
How true to life is yet this child’s game,
Since love too oft seems but a measured chance;
Where if I choose a simple flower to maim,
The numbered petals mark proposed romance.
This puerile plot therein guides chosen fate,
For how I start determines the accord,
And in feigned hope my love, I consecrate;
Success assured in this sweet floret shorn.
Contriving destiny upon a bloom—
Is but a folly many hearts assume.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Innocent love, far sweeter than a child’s,
Unconditional, free of vanity,
Her heart was pure, her body lithe and mild—
Blue eyes so clear, her soul lay bare to see.
She loved me true, of this I always knew
And what she gave, she asked naught in return;
I took her love as any man might do—
Embraced the form, while yet the heart I spurned.
Time is both balm and bane, it often seems;
Somewhere along the path I lost my way,
And soon I held her solely in my dreams,
‘Midst echos of the tender things she’d say.
In private moments when I breathe her name…
I wonder if she smiles—or does the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

But faint, she rises from the waxing gloom—
On scalloped, half-shell barque borne on grey seas;
Waves waked by Zephyr’s breath, blown to a spume,
Deliver her to shore with graceful ease.
Awaiting on the sands, fair Horae Spring
Holds forth a flowered robe to cloak her form;
On fainter breath, sweet virgin Aura sings,
While roses ‘round her golden tresses swarm.
So bright she shines from off that mythic shore,
A sight more lustrous than the brightest star;
With skin of alabaster, polished pure,
No mortal dream could match her by compare.
A lock of gold transgresses there her thighs—
Transfixed, I bask ‘neath Botticelli skies.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Where does love go when it departs from hearts?
Is it the quiet moaning of the wind—
Perhaps the sad lament of summer showers,
Or angry rumble as dark storms begin ?
Does it form clouds to strain the warmth of sun,
Or yet perhaps lay snow upon the loam?
Does fleeing love turn golden leaves to dun,
Or cast pale sorrow o’er the rising moon?
No—love pursues the ever noble things—
In every act of kindness it resides;
It dwells in happy songs that children sing,
And in warm hands or smiling eyes, it hides;
Though love may seem to leave, it is not gone,
And hearts that here now grieve, shall smile anon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.