I never did say you were like a rose,
Though thought, perhaps, invoked a fragrant flower,
Posies impress with beauty, I suppose,
Where common blooms might seem a little dour;
The queen of flowers, an apt analogy
To capture how I felt and what I thought,
Quite knowing you might think it flattery—
That in some way your charms were being bought .
Of course that isn’t true—not true at all,
Yet hope did style in words, a small bouquet
Of heartfelt verse arranged to so enthrall
You with my love, having trifles but to say;
I bound these lines together with a string
Of simple truth to mark the joy you bring!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

In silent thought I muse upon Midori,
Her nectar sweet to soothe my somber soul;
I gaze across an endless cyan ocean
Whose depths still guard life’s mysteries of old;
Tender as first light on verdant meadow,
Gentler than a zephyr waking leaves,
Softer than gold rays on forest mountains,
Lusher than proud promise bound in sheaves;
Her name proclaims the best of spring-time maidens,
So blessing here the world with Eden’s light?
What do we call an angel reft from Aidenn
Set here upon earth’s gardens of delight?
Her grace alone can mend sweet shattered dreams,
For she alone transforms all blue to green.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I only write for you—perhaps you know,
Late evening hours dreamt with pen in hand;
Yet not so much that favored love may grow,
For from first sight, it ever has stood grand;
I am content to dote on you alone—
In quiet moments when love softly sleeps,
And moonlight’s pearl penumbras there are strown
Across my desk—spilled velvet ink that seeps
Onto my page as into every soul
That reads some heartfelt line and feels a stir
Of poignant passion yet beyond control,
Replete with all life’s raging hopes and fears.
Awash in soft moon-shadows, here I think …
Without your love, what nothingness this ink.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What is this lust for clothes that we so dress
Much like a peacock in his stately flame,
Ablaze with frills and colors that profess
Our worth to others that know not our name?
‘The garment makes the man’ it has been said,
Yet sure it seems, it makes the woman too;
As actress on a stage, she holds in stead
A glittered wardrobe that pressed wealth accrues.
Few men can match their mate in habiliment
Though not themselves immune to suave attire,
And of their mate’s bright plumage they may taunt—
That dowdy hen unto proud cock aspires;
It is a show the wisest may condemn—
Pageantry, where nakedness is the end.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Soon poetry shall reign in common thought
As yet more youth acquires the technic pox
That truncates brains’ long cogitates of flight
Into autistic fragments of delight.

The novel is but now a bridge too far
As boring as a trip to distant star
No commercial pause on that great trek
Or shimmering instant flash that is high tech.

No thought or effort more than minutes long
Impatient minds await that well timed gong
That stops engaging stories in mid flow
To show us things to buy or things to know.

The burgeoning brain delights and is ‘all ears’
For all worthwhile reality bides here
No earthly wonder ever bright as this
For gods now speak in techno-glimmered bliss.

Thus so the pruning of the brain goes on
Thereby proof editing dendritic prongs
Until the box transforms the brain within
And some new versions of Hans hymn he sings.

Here poetry fits well in new found spans
Oft short and sweet but in a moment grand
But yet well crafted so to entertain
The sculpted reaches of a well trimmed brain.

What mighty wonders have we cyber wrought
His mother put him right here in that spot
That she may now enjoy some time that’s free
And he learn of the world in mock 3D.

No need to sit and read a story book
Just push a button and then let him look
How very peaceful when neurons decay
And much less strain than going out to play.

Synaptic pruning having run its course
Little Johnny appears but none the worse
Yet in his mind grows strange realities
That must be true, he saw it on TV.

Thus living now in some fictitious world
Not certain if he is a boy or girl
All reasoning reduced to zero or one,
Should he log on or simply buy a gun?

The world once round squeezed now into a square
And all life’s stresses seem to be out there,
Why does he simply stare at screens all day?
He needs a pill to make this go away.

But Johnny’s brain now hacked to 1 and O
Has simply no more branches left to grow,
The world o’erwhelms and gentle love forsakes
Perhaps he’ll harken at commercial breaks.

So in this land of babbage, gates and jobs
And other newly minted cyber gods
Promise endless knowledge, minds forsook —
The world was round when Gutenberg sold books.

But here’s my point before my song is sung
Just read a poem and in a minute… done!
And let the mind form pictures it may hone
Instead of visions some one else may own.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Half way to Wordsworth, I took a silent pause,
Leaned on my pen, embracing brief respite…
To scour my weaker words and all their flaws
And too, the very reasons I should write.
To drown such musings in despairing ink,
To read and dream, my thoughts with his compare —
Beneath that mighty shadow, what to think,
That lowly scribe might breathe of Heaven’s air?
Grasping at salvation, I dwelt on you,
Sure peerless worth that many lines did grace,
That on your sweetness I did so accrue,
A ledger proud, to meet him face to face;
Without your love, what would my words be worth,
My inkwell dry, my song an empty verse.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, now I know that you have been untrue
And silver tears fall fast upon this bed
As you atone for sin in heartfelt rue,
While sordid shadows swirl inside my head;
Where do we go, where do we go from here?
What angel or what whore do I now hold?
From this point on, deceit a constant fear,
And every truth mere stories that I’m told.
I say my piece to calm two wounded hearts;
Grim rancor shall not be my standard now.
This strain forced sadness does not here comport
With all the tallies I have come to know;
I wipe your face and kiss you then goodnight—
In aching silence plan tomorrow’s flight.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

So you shall live in this sweet dying art
Your visage etched in ink as beauties past;
For if a poet’s pen may capture worth,
I pray these words will never be surpassed.
If sweetest essence can distill in rhyme
May those who quaff fall blind in imagery
As fools who search for angels on the sun
Or strain for mermaids on a moonlit sea;
For what is beauty but a living dream,
And what is truth—not but a tenet pure—
Yet when the two are joined in esse supreme,
From unions such rise sylphs beyond compare;
If these words lie then may God strike me dead—
But if they’re true, need nothing more be said.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I greet you now with silver in your hair,
A winter face etched deep by gelid Time,
And yet you speak the warmth I’ve longed to hear,
That has not altered with your faded prime;
Your hands now crooked, dapple stained with age;
Soft hands that once held firm the sands of life—
Formed fists of gallant triumph or of rage,
Faith clasped in prayer to calm life’s inner strife;
Your languid movements, slowed as in a dream…
Yet eyes still bright with wit and willing fire;
A gentle smile that shares your greater theme,
Replete with kindness, love and hope’s desire.
You are still you, and age a mere disguise,
A garment worn—your truth lives in your eyes.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I’m proud to pen your beauty’s legacy
For rarest blooms should never fade unsung;
Though portraits rich in outward praise may be
Bright joy to eyes, where yet the lips stay dumb.
Still, icons cannot chart the inner soul
Nor show the golden luster of pure hearts;
More oft with words are daedal truths made whole
Revealing both the out and inward parts.
In paint, no doubt, your beauty rules supreme,
Yet here in words I capture essence sweet;
For best in ink do truth and beauty reign
Where sovereign worth was never more complete.
To capture such on canvas, this I dare:
A flawless angel blessed beyond compare.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.