I never did say you were like a rose
Though thought perhaps invoked some fragrant flower,
Posies impress with beauty, I suppose
Where common blooms might seem a little dour;
I would, of course, have sought some simile
To capture how I felt and what I thought
Quite knowing you might think it flattery
And in some way your charms were being bought —
Of course that isn’t true, not true at all,
Yet still my words did form a small bouquet
Of heartfelt verse arranged to so enthrall
You with my love, having little more to say;
I bound these lines together with a string
Of simple truth, sweet happiness to bring!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

In quiet thought reflecting on Midori,
Chartreuse to quaff and soothe my somber soul
As I gaze on an endless cyan ocean
Wherein such depths rest all life’s secrets old;
Tender as first light on verdant meadow,
Gentler than a zephyr waking leaves,
Rich the golden rays on forest mountain,
Lush the mellowed promise bound in sheaves;
What marks the name that vests a spring time maiden
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?
Sunshine on sorrow soothes sweet shattered dreams,
Can only she so make my blue turn green.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I only write for you perhaps you know,
Calm evening hours dreamt with pen in hand
There not so much that nurtured 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 silent shadows there are strown
Across my desk, spilt velvet ink that seeps
On to 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 dark 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 acquire the technic pox
Truncating their brains long fancies of flight
Into fragments of autistic delight.

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

No concentrated 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 and things to know.

The burgeoning brain delights and is all ears
For all worthwhile reality is deemed in here
No earthly wonder ever bright as this
A world ensconced in cyber-glimmered bliss.

Thus so the pruning of the brain goes on
Thereby short editing dendritic prongs
Until the box transforms the brain within
And some new versions of Hans hymn we sing.

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 dendrites 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 a strained reality
That must be true, he saw it on TV.

Living now in some alternative world
Not certain if he is a boy or girl
Reasoning such reduced to zero or one,
Should he log on or simply buy a gun?

The world once round is now inside 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 overwhelms and love forsakes
Perhaps he’ll listen at commercial breaks.

So in this land of promise, gates and jobs
Prophets here of new electronic gods
Promised endless knowledge; young minds forsook —
The world stayed round when Gutenberg gave us 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 does own.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Half way to Wordsworth, I took a silent pause,
Leaned on my pen, embraced a brief respite
To scour my weaker words and all their flaws
And too, the very reasons I should write.
To drown these thoughts in sad despairing ink,
To read and dream, my own thoughts to compare —
Beneath a mighty shadow, what to think;
That lowly scribe might walk in heaven’s air?
But in salvation here I dwell on you,
Your 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 may 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 union such rise sylphs beyond compare;
If these words lie then may god strike me dead,
But if so 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 by the frosts of time
And yet you speak a warmth I’ve longed to hear
That has not altered with your passing 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
Or pressed in prayer to calm that inner strife;
Your movements deft, now slowed as in a dream
Yet eyes still bright with wit and willing fire,
A gentle smile that frames 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.

Here proud to pen your beauty’s legacy
For rarest flowers should not fade unsung;
Though portraits rich with outward praise may be
The joy of eyes while yet the heart stays mum.
Yet pictures cannot show the blessed soul
Or yet the golden luster of pure heart;
More oft with words are complex truths fair told
That show at once both out and inward part.
In paint, no doubt your beauty reigns supreme
But here in words I capture essence sweet,
For best in ink do truth and beauty reign
And 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.