Yes, she was quite skeptical,
I observed through my spectacle,
Yet still I wrote,
To get her goat,
And pen words respectable.

I tried antithetical,
And verged on polemical,
But still she frowned,
To bring me down,
And claimed it expectable.

So then I tried notable,
Though aimed quite for quotable,
That made her laugh
And take a bath;
I settled for denotable.

My ego susceptible,
To barbs so adjectival,
I took my pen,
Once more began,
An ode dialectical.

Approval undetectable,
Or praise non selectable,
She seemed to sink,
My words of ink…
Raised eyebrow conjectural.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Am I now married to your haughty praise,
That in each word I seek some paltry gain?
I supplicate, for eyebrows not to raise,
Avoiding frowns whose shadow might cause pain.
My heart, served on a platter, unrequited;
Assiduous mind attuned to your desire,
My adulation for you, ever slighted;
My hands, slave to your labors, never tire.
What fate awaits this prisoner of love,
Here in your service, seeming ever bound?
Unto your stolid heart what more to prove,
When in your hallowed crypt my heart is found?
To love so much is not to seek a cause—
For love alone I bear this solemn cross.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

In the dead of night, O wicked one, your smile,
Yawning wide, breathing poison on my soul;
Frozen in fear like some small frightened child,
Transfixed by demon eyes of burning coal.
Yet still you haunt me on these moonless nights
When I’m alone afloat on tranquil dreams;
When not one star dares cast its timid light,
Dark silent windows fogged by silent screams.
Murkiness deeper than the pits of hell,
Cold Stygian shadows that full cloak your heart,—
What evil form does your rank will compel
To stalk me still, though we lay long apart?
Alas, this fool once clasped a heart of stone—
Black blunder brief…forever to atone.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

It is spring time,
Time to sing time,
Let’s have a fling in May.

It’s time for love,
The sky above,
Will lift our hearts in play.

It is spring time,
Lovely spring time,
Let laughter ring each day.

Sweet blossoms grow,
Adieu to snow,
Be happy and be gay!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sweet robin red breast, harbinger of spring,
Raise up your voice and to the heavens call,
That your dear mate may hear the love you sing,
And music such, stark dormant earth enthrall.
Your voice awakes the slumb’ring sprigs of May,
Imbuing blush green envy to buff hills,
As if each note your precious throat may say
Adds dabs of color to drab winter’s twill.
So is it now as yet of times gone by—
A joyous lover paints the world in song,
As if his brush of love could gloss the sky,
And his blithe trill could right each earthly wrong.
Sweet robin sing, and here your heart outpour!
That every brumal heart might spring adore.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.