Sonnet 350

What of those distant lovers lost in time,
Like sweet Chinook in quest on winter snow
Absent from heart but never so from mind,
Haunting the quiet places memories go.
In somber thought a sullen tear to shed
Or yet a sudden warmth to wrest a smile;
An evocation then as to why love fled,
A chary walk along that distant mile.
The sweetest love may end in raging fire,
The fondest hopes may be interred in ice;
Of love and loss who knows what may transpire
When cursed Cassandra throws those amorous dice.
Though from the heart love’s essence may abscond,
Within the soul its’ shadow lingers on.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The Cerveau and the Sea

Creatio ex nihilo
Asendentem de mari
Benedicto cerebri
The brain rose large and yellow
Above the darkened heart
Casting it’s sallow penumbrous shadow
Onto the stygian blue main,
Shattering into scintillations of consciousness,
Illuminating impulses of ionic ingenuity,
Lurching lumens of logic and
Shimmering shards of salient sapience that
Enlightened the gloom.
To sleep,
That living death
Before we wake in dreams,
Lulled to unconsciousness by hypnagogic hallucinations
Ingressing and egressing
Waxing and waning
Animated anfractuous agitations;
The purple serpiginous aurora of the night;
Each pebbled thought now wet with lunacy,
Evoking essences of smooth darkness
Worn slick by the grinding garrulous grit of time,
Awaiting baptism by that salutary surge of photons
Pouring down from the exultant azure to drown pure
In the dazzling celestial light of unadulterated omnipotence:
The power and the glory.
Here now the mermaid rises from the sea
Her bioluminescent locks drawn back
By zealous zephyrs hands
Set soon to claw the waves into maniacal froths
White tipped with cresting rage.
She is unafraid;
Her sweet melodical voice
Calling to me from the shallow deep
Quite knowing that I cannot swim—
Nor can she tread the blank littoral band
That I call home;
Yet still she sings
Abyssal angelic chorales
Her sinusoidal silhouette
Swaying and seducing
Drawing me into shadowed subterranean caverns
With her impossible beauty,
Diamonds dripping from her golden hair,
Eyes of Neptune blue…
Ruber labia tua
Her tail a soft reptilian green,
Wet with lust…
Forgive me father for I have sinned.
Where shall I sojourn tomorrow?
After the antebellum, the terebellum and the cerebellum
Have sunken into the comatose depths
And lofty dreams are now but flotsam on the sea,
The last of human breath ensconced in tiny bubbles
Mixing with the merriment of mermaid’s songs,
Reminding me of where I long to be
Or might have been…
If only I could swim.
Yet think I must or I shall surely drown
And wash up on a lonely shore to be awakened
By baisers of blue and silver lapping at my mind.
Eluting evil, heartening
Informing my locus coeruleus
Of my resurrection…
My insurrection,
My dereliction.
The sylphids sing hosanna.
What is this world?
How different from the one before;
The cerebral galleon now sunken in the brine
Where ‘midst it’s gyri naiads swim
And sing sweet siren songs
That lure lame hearties to the dark dank locker
Immuring them in sinuous sulci of sunken scopuli,
While on the beach we hear their muted screams
In abandoned sea shells,
Those spiral sarcophagi,
Lost and languishing
Limbically laughing and lamenting
Among the synaptic seaweed swaddled corpses of dead squid
And fish skeletons
Half buried in the sand.
The ocean has no memory;
As it was so shall it always be,
Osculating some petulant hind brain shore,
Some raunchy romping rhombencephalon
With promises of immortality,
Yet in its depths that sunken schooner sits
Abutting and ajoining
The substantia nigra
Pars compacta
Crenulated and grey,
Battered and blanched,
Barnacled by time,
Perseverating, on and off
Spilling its’ axiomatic enigmatic treasures
Its limpid learned lore
Upon the ocean floor.
Catatonic or convulsing;
Contemptuous crustaceans could not care,
Orange crooked legs clamber
Scattering silver silt on gold gilt doubloons of doubt
While effervescent hope still floats above
Like water lanterns
Importuning deities gazing down
Upon the watery main, blanketing desire
With tears of condescending rain.
Astrocytic aspirations rise up to deal with dark matters;
How the meek have risen through pure piety
And arid arrogance to thirstily embrace
The purview of the gods.
Again the rain patters.
Yet on the shore a cracked cranium rests askew
It’s ghoulish vacant sockets
Starring out to sea…
Gutted of glistening glia
Emptied of numb neuronal nihilism,
It’s foramen magnum spilling forth
Nothing but vile vagrant vermin and
The unforgiving sands of time.
In cerebrum morteus est
Vivat cerebri
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 349

All is now lost for you belong to him,
I heard the distant steeple peal its joy
Which from my vantage echoed cold and grim
To torture ears and stinging eyes annoy;
What’s left of love when surly bronze shall toll,
That self same dome that cries when death descends,
One sonorous gong clangs happiness and woe
So mixing glad inception with sad end.
No doubt your mouth did form the words ‘I do’;
Stained lips did press to seal that sacred vow,
What of the pledge to me you swore was true,
That troth now scattered rice upon the ground.
Though cherubim voices did so canonize,
What truth exalts in consecrated lies?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 348

I dip my pen into a well of ink,
The blackest blue or yet the bluest black;
A drop upon white paper makes me think
Of thoughts and feelings that my wits contrast;
Of love and hate, happiness and despair,
Feast or famine, truth or lies, wrong or right;
Such difference does it’s part to beg compare
Of what is truly black or truly white.
All things in life are matters of degree
Where estimates of such rest in the mind,
Too oft we reason by pure heart’s decree
Where fevered vision may yet leave us blind.
To see the world in eyes that judge all stark
Is not to view in light, but shades of dark.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 347

An exercise in spite is doomed to shame,
A slap upon the face shall win no war;
Though words of scorn a school child may maim
‘Tis better here sagacious men ignore.
Outrageous slights are not but vanity,
Purveyors so to elevate their worth;
To be embroiled in such absurdity
Is but at best, a jester courting mirth.
It is a frailty of the human form
That passion oft prevail o’er common sense,
So when the blood of simpletons wax warm
A measured jest is oft the best defense.
For what to gain from mindless spats with fools,
The winner such bedecked by spit and drool.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 346

Even the black finality of death
Shall never end your wild and wondrous song,
Much as sweet music or a rose’s breath
Upon their seeming end, still linger on.
All eyes that gaze have etched upon their mind
The scintillations of your memory
Which strangely do enhance with passing time
While others yet fade to obscurity.
Through out the ages sylphs begat from heaven
Have walked the earth yet few by name we know,
Cornelia, Cleopatra, Helen?
Into that silent crypt all others go.
Of storied time which fortune bears or bars,
I write the name Selena in the stars.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 345

Here still I write into the twilight more
Enjoying muted candle o’er the sun,
Preferring colors that the stars adore
Amidst the quiet musings of the moon;
Soft is the velvet night upon the sea,
Majestic more the purple darkened range,
At peace, the silent shadows on the lea,
Sky blanket covered dwellings on the grange.
The heavens are best mirrored by still water,
As purest thought reflects from tranquil minds,
Of this and more that probing souls may ponder:
Sweet truth in contemplation there may find.
A glim shines brighter in broad darkness quite;
I welcome so the comfort of the night.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.


Our genome differs from the chimp
By one point two percent,
The Y I’m told, though but a shrimp,
An extra two augments.
So since one X is held in check
The Y gives men the more
And though it seems but just a speck,
These genes we can’t ignore.
This does explain a fact of life
Which one cannot escape,
I hold less common with my wife
Then she does with an ape.
Though one may argue or abstain
From such an arcane thought,
Since we stood upright on the plain—
The stranger she has got.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 344

A living memory in a dying art
A message in a bottle tossed to sea,
A simple wish upon a falling star
A hope on hope that shall not ever be.
Such is the passage of the mortal soul,
A traveler from and to yet never there;
All worthy toil but for some nameless goal,
A destiny unsure still ever, where….?
Alone upon that solipsistic plain
Doubting reason, trusting not the mind,
Ethereal essence not of heart or brain
Clear of a purpose not quite yet defined;
A dance of particles on solar winds…
Or yet the children of Elysium?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 343

He left you scorned and now you come to me,
What value could I possibly yet hold?
I knew you first; no interest did you see
In my drab person, so I once was told.
It’s true I did not press a chance for love
But sensed that on pure kindness it might grow,
I chose my distance, banked on stars above
To show a course based on blank fate alone.
I see you here in much a different light,
You did not want me then and do not now;
My purpose but to catch a tear in flight
That it not splash and stain your chosen gown.
Yes I the nursemaid sought to assuage pain,
No love to lose, and surely, none to gain.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.