Sonnet 215

In truth, you would beseech me endlessly,
And evermore heap guilt upon my breast.
A child of love you wished to thus conceive,
In trust; and I the one that would so bless.
No obligation, none, you staunch did swear-
No ties, no times or labors to confound;
Just you, your child, and hope to here forbear,
And I a memory lost, my life unbound.
No simple matter to unyoke a heart,
And so to leave a hackled soul to roam;
Though I, in pleasured moment play my part,
Yet there condemn my conscience to a tomb.
A life so precious must spring forth from love,
Or I the dastard left, with naught to prove.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The Empress’s Clothes

A woman’s geography
Is considered pornography
So everywhere that she goes.

She’s constrained unto modesty
So many times all that we see
Is face, fingers, hands, arms and toes.

A blatant inequity
At least at the beach where might be-
A veritable lacking of robes.

Where once that ‘don’t look at me’
Embraces hypocrisy-
Most everything hidden now shows.

It would seem then in history
Or at least in false piety…
The empress sometimes has clothes.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 214

What is this love? Perhaps not ever after;
Does it live on beyond the beating heart?
When souls dissolve into thin vapored matter
Does love so linger, or with souls depart?
What essence then survives sweet memory,
Where living memoirs loves’s fond praises sing;
And when proud voices into darkness flee,
On to what ears do dying echos ring?
Does love then fade like music in a room,
Or yet like perfume on a bridal gown,
Evanesce like light entrapped inside a tomb,
Or wane like haunting bagpipe dirges blown.
In hope, when lover’s eyes shall grace these lines,
Our love remembered lives, and so mocks time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 213

I remember us speaking when you returned,
Yet we spoke not of your most rank deceit,
Preferring platitudes as if we’d learned
That biting rancour thrives on harsh critique.
Your words did probe my heart as if to find
Perhaps an ember left in ashes grey,
A little spark or glow love left behind,
Sweet breaths unto a flame might there parlay.
Puffery was wasted, the hearth stayed cold;
Stone cold, without a glim of hope afore,
And where once love could rattle dying coals
Into a raging pyre; now here no more.
This love, black cinders where no Phoenix lives;
Five hundred years or more could not forgive.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 212

These pleasures of the flesh, my soul decry,
Yet powerless am I to thwart their throes;
And of us two, which one shall here decide
To honor promise and make lust our foe?
All wrongs seem right when you are in my arms;
What truthful vows can we not thus amend?
Proud passion brief, wherein does lie the harm
If on the morrow we to truth commend?
My hunger for your body grates my soul;
Your lips inflame me with a madness sweet;
Your warm caresses all my heart cajole,
All mortal reason vanquished here complete.
No gods or demons could this fervor quell;
As we burst through the very gates of hell.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 211

Most prayers, well framed, still lose their way to heaven,
But not the one that brought you here to me;
For in those silent moments when I’ve given
All praise and promise for that yet to be,
Having you by my side was most requested,
In earnest hope, if not in plenitude;
This wish, therefore, it seems could not be bested,
Sweet heaven still glints with tears of gratitude.
Though still I pray, it is with muted ardor,
More oft in thanks for what I have received,
This prize so great, what more could one man garner:
This heaven on earth, no bounty could exceed.
So I am blessed, and thankful for each day;
Though heaven decides, may this forever stay.

 

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.