One hundred years from Yeats, and still I cry,
Reading old notes born out of 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 te 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 yet of pure delight;
A pantomime of life, to life extol.
Broad voice grown richer with the passing years,
To uplift 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 chary;
If truth be known, she was the first I’d kissed;
She sensed it so, ‘close your eyes’, she chided;
With heart fair set to burst its’ very 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 not a kiss, but love 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,
I clasp her 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 because I could not be possessed,
For I was born beneath an endless sky,
To hail sunrise in east and set in west,
I wandered meadows like bold clouds on high.
At night beneath a winsome yellow moon,
Heard wolves compete in forlorn lonesome calls,
Oft serenaded by some haunted loon,
Or harkened quite to distant cattle wrawls;
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 these petals dropped?
Why none, of course, save in the one still free,
Clinging to that stem that soon is tossed.
How true to life is yet this child’s game,
Since love too oft seems but the whim of chance,
Where if I choose a simple flower to maim,
The numbered petals measure mused 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 sure a folly that most hearts assume.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Innocent love, far sweeter than a child’s,
Unconditional, free of vanity,
Heart pure, lithe body vestal, undefiled,
Blue eyes so clear, the 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 figure, yet the heart I spurned.
Time is both balm and bane, it often seems;
Somewhere along the path I lost my way,
Until I held her solely in my dreams,
‘Midst echos of her tender sobriquets.
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 riled by Zephyrs’ breath unto a spume,
Delivering her to shore with graceful ease.
Awaiting on the sands, the Horae Spring,
Holds forth a flowered robe to cloak her form,
On fainter breath, sweet virgin Aura sings,
As roses ‘round her golden tress are blown.
So bright she shines from off that mythic shore,
A sight more lustrous than the brightest star;
With skin of alabaster swept so pure,
No vision born of earth could yet 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 absconds from hearts;
Is it the quiet moaning of the wind?
Perhaps the sad lament of summer showers,
Or angry brace of distant thunders’ din?
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 so mete pallor to the rising moon?
No! Loves’ pursuit is ever noble things,
In every act of kindness it resides;
It dwells in happy songs that children sing,
In warm embrace and smiles, it too abides;
Though love may seem to leave, it is not gone,
And hearts that now do grieve, shall smile anon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.