My silver mirror counts the scores of time;
Alabaster and gold, both dulled to grey—
Yet in the eyes remains a light refined,
The proud last glimmer of youth’s brighter days;
There in that glass is storied time retold
In lines of love and laughter, joy and strife;
A chronicle of life both rich and bold,
One not to be recast, though flaws be rife—
Once long ago a boy did make a sword
From sticks he found upon a forest floor,
He raised it high and with stern oath was sworn
A pledge to vanquish dragons evermore.
Dire demons fell each day throughout his reign;
Though darkness ever loomed…the light sustained.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

No poem ever written frames your grace;
No sonnet so enshrined by mortal means
Could here do justice to that peerless face—
That masterpiece which mortal words demean;
Here I stand mute, His work speaks to your truth,
Yet still I write, by silent thoughts amazed,
In hope by lines to capture timeless worth
Transmuting celestial light to earthly praise.
A daunting task, still so compelled, I scribe
In prayer some soul might sense my awed delight
And here by reading, thus his soul apprise
Of hidden graces that transcend all sight.
In humbled ink, by lyric lines I laud—
A beauty from the vernissage of God.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What milk of mercy swells a woman’s breast
Where she forsakes a helpless human child
And so disdains the fruit of her own flesh,
By actions vain—love’s strongest bond defiled?
A mother’s love once pure, in deed assured,
Now doubted quite, as whims of wanton queens;
This love once true, now hereby dark immured,
For love of self, life’s fondest trust demeaned.
It once was given that a girl would grow
Into a woman, nurturing and kind,
And by love’s pledges ever there bestow
Maternal forces, hellions to align—
An ape with babe in arms was once set free,
Climbed to great heights, then dropped it from a tree.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The world’s awash in middling poetry
Where stilted rhythms vainly make their stand,
As bootless wreckage jouncing on the sea—
Too few yet seem of worth when they make land;
Like flotsam of the tide they lie in rune
Their motley measure cluttering the shore,
Daft jumbled voices singing out of tune
Resembling more a sea shell’s raucous roar.
Yet human echoes strewn upon the beach
Do mark mean musings of the vagrant soul
And to the nomad, searching each to each,
Find relics there of happiness and woe.
In ink, therefore, I craft another dross,
And to the waves of time, pure jetsam toss.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I took your beauty, wove it into song,
Bejeweling it with stars from heaven above;
Bright-sequined so my sweetly formed sarong,
Was lined alike in purest silken love.
Soft moonbeam threads around the edges sewn,
Dusk’s purple shadows dyed into the weave,
A splash of sunshine like a sash deft thrown
To dapple down like golden autumn leaves;
Sheer dove soft mantle, ethereal and light,
Diaphanous as yet an angel’s wing,
A chiffon cloud sweet shimmering in delight
With all the wonders pleasured hope may bring;
Fair raiment right, a robe beyond compare—
I see it best when you do nothing wear!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What of these dearest ties that bind
My heart to yours sweet Valentine
That passion grow and fate entwine
In tendrils true one hope divine.

While love may wax or wane in time
My fondness for you reigns sublime
Nor shall it wither on the vine
For truer love you’ll never find.

To waste this gift seems such a crime
So pledge your troth and here be mine
Then to love’s bower we’ll resign
In warm embrace e’re to recline.

As long as waters flow the Tyne
Or lovers raise a glass of wine
My heart to you I shall consign
And in these words our love enshrine.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Dear valentine, my sweetest valentine
The baby breaths of spring are wafting near
And I would thaw that winter heart of thine
Before its frost denies our season here;
Long have I courted you with sweets and posies
Proffering them as gestures of romance;
I brought you tulips—you pined for roses,
Refusing love but giving half a chance.
Still, life goes on and love remains undaunted,
I know the day will dawn when you shall see
That in my world, your grace is ever vaunted
And all my hopes are set on only thee;
For love grows fonder with each gentle breath —
This heart consigned to you, in life and death.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What is life? To feel the sun on your face
At dawn, or the softest rain on your tongue,
A lover’s embrace or your mother’s dear grace,
A walk in the woods that goes on and on;
Twinkling stars of light on a moonless night
That seem to quiver en pointe and display
The hopes and dreams of dear passioned delight
Along the fond path of love’s promenade;
The warmth of the hearth, the smiles of the loved,
Precious tears for those lost souls long sailed;
Sweet ardent prayers to our Father above
That our earth-born enchantments be hailed.
The truth is that life is a wondrous song…
Soul sung by the heart, to be brief or yet long.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.