Month: April 2020

Sonnet 342

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
Here stands before us fearsome mighty Time,
Serrated blade still dripping red with blood;
Defiant, dark, delighting in cruel crimes,
Bellicose, bleak, belligerent and proud.
Debasing dreams of immortality—
Though acolytes in fervent prayer protest;
Behind him swards of black finality
That mocks the very hope of heaven’s rest.
What power do we hold against such force?
What heart of flesh could ever make a stand?
Must mortals bow as slaves to forgone course—
What action here might stay his cruel hand?
From leveled fields, his joy in carnage fed,
He laughs as children wail among the dead.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 341

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
As passion flows into this silent ink
Etched deep on parchment, sentiments confined.
Where cursive strokes through faithful passions link
Sweet musings of the heart to thoughts in mind;
So may such truth here rendered bless this verse
That years from now these lines I may still read,
And in reciting, memories rehearse…
The mystic gardens where true love stays green.
If not transcribed, what ledger could I keep
When recollection stands but sure to fail?
In memory’s vault, false visions often creep,
For Time corrupts, to wear truth thin and frail.
Yet ardor, poorly inked by loving hand—
Still bests the finest ever writ in sand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 340

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
The curtain rises at the break of day,
Sweet feathered chorus rousing to the call,
An April morning, sullen, cold, and grey
With still an air of spring to hearts enthrall;
Another scented summer stands in wait
For spring, still in her peignoir, pink and blue,
To drift to sleep until drab winter’s prate
Wakes her again when his next reign is through.
Thespians of the solstice come and go,
Their soliloquies commissioned by the sun
Who orchestrate the tempo and the flow
Of every act until each play is done.
Here I, glad patron of this living art
Behold with eyes what best is held by heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 339

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
A plague has now descended on the land
To steal the breath of many it corrupts,
So questioned as an act of god or man,
From whence or where—all souls to feel its touch.
A dread contagion Ramses may have feared,
As unseen vapors floated in thin air;
That would have made him don his postiche beard
As he sought councel begging Heka’s care.
But here no mastery sways this new day scourge,
Damned devil from an unknown lab unchained,
A sinister stratagem from which emerged
A Frankenstein that ravaged, uncontained.
A pestilence beyond sheer vile disease—
An evil that brought Earth unto her knees.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 338

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
Love is a paradox of ice and flame
That can both warm or freeze a heart in kind,
As fickle yellow suns will wax and wane
To paint by season, changing jots of time.
White snows of winter make us dream of June
And pray green springtide melts away all snow,
But scarlet August and its hothouse moons
Soon make us wish for golden autumn’s glow.
So can the human heart transmute with time
And pied in purpose, dance both warm and cold,
One moment pink of smiles and joys sublime,
The next a frigid frown blue, brash and bold.
From frosted mornings on to sultry nights—
Hued thermal contradictions give love spice.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 337

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
This was not writ to win of love or like
But here in words sweet passion to implore,
That you might see me in a poet’s light
As I in ranting rhyme, my soul out pour;
So here in wanting lines these thoughts I spill,
Full lacking both in ardor and in form
As if some fool had found a tattered quill
To scratch out runes that might a dullard bore.
Where eyes lack wonder, what to seek in praise
That might ignite some semblance of desire,
And through such musings, spark some stirring phrase
To unmask coyness and dear heart inspire?
I am aware this sonnet seems a sham,
Yet smile in ink——I write therefore I am.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Killing Time

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
I have always been running from time
From before I was born —
After I die it won’t change
I hide from him but he always finds me
Melting my face
Weakening my bones
Painting my sable mustache grey
I wish he would leave me alone
There are greater men to haunt than me.
When I do nothing
They say I am killing time
But he does not die
I do nothing all the time
And still he thrives
Rusting the wheelbarrow
Peeling the paint off the gate
Wilting the lilies
Turning babies into old men
Pure mischief.
He should find something else to do
Like turn the sun purple
Or erase the pock marks from the moon
Make Betelgeuse a supernova
Convert the ocean into soda pop
And Antarctica to ice cream…
Maybe just give us a break for a while
Say a hundred years or so
Where things might stay the same.
Do it in summer time
Or in the fall when all the leaves are golden
Nothing ages
All things chilling
No one’s time runs out
No deadlines
No time sensitive obligations
Each day the sun rises and sets
And it only rains at night
We would have the time of our lives—
This time is killing me.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 336

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
Your failure to control was deemed my fault—
Projection was forever your defense,
My failed acquiescence a dire assault
To undermine benevolent intent.
Life would be perfect should I follow cue
And simply serenade from gilded cage;
All rights surrendered with the words ‘I do’—
The words of ‘no or don’t’ fair courting rage.
The bird of love sings sweetest when set free
And bides his time whenever he’s confined,
Forever searching for that golden key
Or turn of fate that may his heart unbind;
Yet when escaped, his captor wonders why
That he might ever leave…or yet could fly.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 335

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
All covet beauty for its lustrous power
For glamour is the monarch all men serve,
And be such reign no longer than an hour—
Small ransoms still exchange for that sweet myrrh;
Incensed so, the weaker sex gains might—
Soft power to vanquish kings no sword could slay;
While mighty sovereigns with their glass oft fight
To find that angle painters should portray.
A lovely face can be a regal crown
Whose gilded shine oft blinds as happy tears;
Of birthright pure, or paint, still held on loan…
Time’s usury to call in meager years.
Such is the paradox vanity imparts,
Where jestress may yet rule as Queen of Hearts.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 334

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
What if you were to meet Wordsworth my dear,
How would you possibly know it was he?
Perhaps you might think that his speech was quite queer
Or find his manner a quaint novelty.
Speaking of Tintern, might that be a clue,
Or his travels in France after Bastille?
His friendship with Coleridge or verses they drew
To alter the landscape of odes lyrical?
The point of this rune is that we don’t know
What talent may dwell in the souls that we meet,
But by bending an ear we may at least show
A knowledge that worth may be hidden beneath;
For though every heart a floret may thrill,
Clear not every bloom’s a damn daffodil!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.