Sonnet 207

That evening I sent you a white pure rose,
Well knowing that you always favored red;
Perhaps in forgiveness, I wanted it so
For some things seem more keen when left unsaid.
I had it delivered up to his room,
My hired sleuth assured that you’d be there;
For cause unknown I watched out in the gloom
With heavy heart and face a moveless stare.
Two silhouettes embraced, then lights went out;
My eyes burned deep into that blackened pane-
All life, all love, all hope I cared about
Seemed in an instant gone, fair promise slain.
A fool, a street, a rose, a broken heart,
A night, a pane, a moon, a shameless tart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 206

Then by what measure do you weigh my art,
You, whose essence lives in every line?
So even as you read this, judge me not
By style, by depth, by wit, or yet by rhyme.
Though many sing proud praises, false or true,
And gifts of vivid colors you surround,
They do but flatter here to misconstrue
The sterling truth that in my song is found.
So I, though poor in purse, yet rich in ink
Strive but to etch my name on your heart sweet,
Knowing it’s presumptuous here to think
That I, ‘gainst all your suitors might compete;
Yet, if a heart was ever won by pen,
These words with all your courters will contend.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 205

Sweet heaven! I beseech you, hear my vow,
That I shall suffer death to right the wrongs
That caused her head to bend in shameful bow,
Before all wretched fouls I could amend.
Oh does it pain me that her heart should grieve,
Or that her mind should dwell on my deceit;
For what am I if she should choose to leave,
Not but an empty vessel, drained complete.
Then hear my pleas and give me thus the strength
To beg forgiveness with so sure a tone,
That I may mount a broad and blessed defense,
Win back her love, and for my sins atone.
Would divine benevolence here grant this stay,
And I repair my heart and souls decay.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 204

What sure sweet honor does your beauty dress
Which captures here the focus of all eyes?
Yet of your worth, your virtue triumphs best,
For beauty is oft superficial guise.
Still few, if any, truly see your heart,
Ensconced within those charms your glass does show;
And though you view them, set you them apart,
As if they were imaginary clothes.
True beauty is not out, but lies within,
And is the essence of all human worth;
For those that prize primped opalescent skin,
Their value of true beauty is perverse.
While beauty’s garment often dulls with wear,
True virtue’s vestment shines forever fair.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 203

You could not twist the vine to your liking,
That vine that grew up the wall by your window;
Those glossy green leaves, ever so striking,
As were rare blossoms of pale yellow.
How it clung to the glass always amazed you,
Yet, never allowing to block out your sun,
You mangled its verdance so that it grew
At the edge of the glass, where it blocked none.
Time after time as you gazed on the world
A sprig or a sprag seemed to pop in your way,
A green leafy flag so brazen, unfurled,
Not long to blemish or darken your day.
A lone sunken gravestone, weathered with time,
Grey faded etchings, now covered in vine.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Dark Sight

I like to write by candle light,
When moon is ripe and round;
There visions dance before my sight,
And fancies fair abound.

When shadows wrap my shoulders bare,
And all the world’s asleep,
I see with view beyond compare,
Despite the shadows deep.

It is such pleasant irony,
Bright scenes here drawn from dark;
But when the sun sinks in the sea,
I see with senses stark.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 202

Dim candle light, scrap paper and my pen,
Surrounded by grim memories of the past;
Soft flickering glow, the darkness here does fend,
Until brave dawn shall rescue me at last.
Your silhouette, alive in changing shapes
Slips slowly through penumbras in the room,
I drop my pen, now frantic for escape,
But where to run within this umbrous tomb?
Why must you haunt me in the quiet night,
What refuge left that is but mine alone?
Can thought or prayer expunge your visage quite;
For what transgression must I still atone?
Faint strains of dawn! Redemption in the east!
‘Til night returns, and shadows set to feast.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.