How cruel is love to lovers far apart
Though they recline beneath the self same moon?
Sad tears now staid from whence they did depart,
Soft aching in their hearts remains a moan;
Love knows not time or distance yet restrains
The greatest joy unto propinquity;
Though metered not in miles, such miles contain
Abject measure of a lone heart’s misery.
True love can nullify both space and time
Where lesser love may find a bridge too far,
And for some lovers, absence is a crime
Yet to the staunch dims not that steadfast star.
From clouds appears the moon and she does smile,
There 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 was the arrow there,
I clutched my virtual breast, as if 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 upon my mouth restored life’s beat
And I recovered full, quite free from harm.
From time to time, afflictions do 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 staunch 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 fair sown may grace perennial time,
So may the gift of knowledge there 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
There with a tongue not soured by jealousy?
What part of her sweet form should bear the blame
Of striking sight with matchless harmony?
No rose as known did choose her blessed scent
Or yet the richness of her love splashed red;
The countenance of blooms is heaven lent
And on ethereal mist such charms dispread.
Yet lesser blossoms oft resent the sight
Of flawless florets that attract all eyes,
Eschewing praise, they may quite damn with blight
And in so doing spoil all beauty’s cause.
Rare beauty is a gift that god’s bestow,
And spite a canker that most 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 be
That you sat on my knee not long ago?
In you I see your mother, through and through,
That gentle strength that angels fairly 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
And 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 rainbowed 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 arc of shining dreams,
The burdened truths of life still there bedight
As rare does hope play out as one would deem.
Love is composed of pleasure and of pain,
Sky splendored bows not spawned just by the sun
But when so seen we oft forget the rain,
That both are bound in that brief glory span.
Embrace both sad today as glad tomorrow,
Love’s strength sustains in sweetness as in sorrow.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.