How cruel is love to lovers held apart,
Though they recline beneath the self same moon;
Sad tears now stayed from whence they did depart,
While aching in their hearts soft sings a tune.
Love knows not time or distance—yet restrains
The greatest joy unto propinquity;
Though metered not in miles, such miles contain
Full measures of a lone heart’s misery.
True love can mollify both space and time,
Where lesser love may find a bridge too far;
For some, such absence borders upon crime—
Yet to the staunch, dims not that steadfast star.
From clouds appears the moon—ah, she does smile,
So salving pained partition for a while.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Her looks did kill me, and I was so slain,
Though love, not hatred, loosed the arrow there;
I clutched my virtual breast, as though to feign
A mortal wound had spilt blood with a stare;
Perhaps she saw the pallor in my face—
Heme drained, in pain, beneath the victor’s gaze,
I bowed my head as though in sad disgrace
Though truth be known, my spirit was upraised;
But die I did, and I surrendered sweet,
Both heart and soul into her loving arms;
Her mouth on mine restored life’s rhythmic beat,
And I recovered full, quite free from harm.
From time to time, afflictions still return—
Her lips touch mine, and frailty does adjourn.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She was at once my literary Rose,
A blossom bright on that scholastic Moore,
Blank upland plain where only weeds might grow
If unattended by firm guidance sure;
A clod on that grey heath selected thus
Enriched with seeds of knowledge to inspire,
Watered there with drops of purposed trust,
That from hard clay a mighty arbre aspire.
As gardens may outlast the gardener,
As seeds well sown may grace perennial time,
So may the gift of learning yet confer
A vision of the world that reigns sublime;
In reverent ink, a tribute to a flower
That blessed the earth—if only for an hour.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What part of beauty may the common shame,
Where tongues are not so soured by jealousy?
What part of sweetness should yet bear the blame
Of striking sight with matchless harmony?
No floret known did choose her blessed scent,
Nor yet the richness of her love-splashed hue;
The essence of a bloom is heaven-lent
And through God’s blessing, accolades accrue.
Yet lesser blossoms oft resent the sight
Of flawless rivals that attract all eyes,
Laconic praise so set to damn with blight,
By offhand manner, beauty’s worth belies.
Rare beauty is a gift that gods bestow—
Spite is the canker peerless flowers know.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

My first born child, my sweet—you are a dream,
A gift as grand as any heaven bestowed;
And now a woman grown—how can it seem
That you sat on my knee not long ago?
In you I see your mother, through and through,
That gentle strength that angels softly dressed;
In her I saw, and now I see in you,
The best that truth and beauty ever blessed.
But now, a woman pure, your time has come
To take your place within this wondrous world,
To sing aloud until your song is sung
As you leave every victory flag unfurled;
And when one day in arms you hold a child—
May thoughts return to me, for just a while.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Of all love’s splendors, first is constancy,
Though capricious iridescence oft may play
Upon the mind to paint sweet fantasy—
Light winsome charms to tender hearts way lay.
While many trip the pathway of delight
And languish ‘neath that orb of shining dreams,
Life’s burdened truths may seem a sorry blight,
As rare does hope play out as one would deem.
Love is composed of pleasure and of pain—
Sky splendored bows need showers as well as sun;
But when so seen, we oft forget the rain,
That both are bound in glory, as if one.
Embrace both sad today as glad tomorrow,
Love’s faith sustains in sweetness as in sorrow.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.