Sonnet 342

Within fond dreams of immortality
There spates of reason may yet interject
Brief scenes of such abject finality
To shake the very cause of that quaint quest.
Now stands before us fearsome mighty Time,
His rusted sword still dripping with fresh blood;
Defiant, dark, delighting in foul crime,
Bellicose, bleak, belligerent and proud.
What power do we hold against such force?
What heart of flesh can here yet make a stand?
Must we now bow as slave to forgone course?
What action such could stay his cruel hand?
Of leveled sand whereto his joy may thrive,
Look on this ruin, yet truth and love survive.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 341

I pour my passion into muted ink,
This love for you which prose cannot confine
And of this shorthand I may yet so link
Ethereal essence to sweet thoughts in time;
May worth thus captured ever live in verse
That times from now I might then choose to read
And in so doing memory there return
Unto sweet gardens that my soul does feed.
If not transcribed what ledger may I keep?
Recollection alone stands sure to fail,
Into remembrance faulty scenes may creep,
Pure recall such by time’s corruption paled.
This ardor here so marked by loving hand
Bests grander words inscribed upon the sand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 340

The curtain rises at the break of day,
Sweet feathered chorus rousing to the call,
An April morning, sullen cold and grey
And yet an air of spring does life enthrall;
Another scented summer lies in wait
That springtide don her peignoir pink and blue
To sleep again until drab winter’s prate
Awakens her when his ice reign is through.
Thespians of the solstice romp and go,
Soliloquies commissioned  by the sun
Who orchestrates the tempo and the flow
Of every act until each set is done.
Here I, proud patron of this living art
Behold with eyes scenes best beheld by heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 339

What is the worst of this vile vexing plague
That I fair choked with spittle cease to be?
Far worse that it might here yet so assail
My love that foulest fate wrest her from me;
That every virtue that I prize be lost,
That sweetest day succumb to tyrant storm,
That precious jewel into the main be tossed
And death devour the finest flower earth bore.
These are the heavy thoughts my soul to bear,
This loss far greater than the world shall know
That such a worth of every measure fair
Take leave of light and to black shadows go.
Here so I state through might of living breath;
There lurks a fate that is far worse than death.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 338

Touch me not though my heart be inflamed-
I want you close yet ask you stay afar
For now I know our love you have defamed,
Rank foul fog now veils guiding star;
Where do I go, where do I go from here?
A course once clear now hid in darkest night,
For of a love which I once held so dear
Now stands corrupted by a loathsome blight.
How to forgive what cannot be forgot?
How might I pull this arrow from my heart
And not bleed dry in fountain of pure blood
There fading so to black as soul departs?
So quickly has this bolt turned love to hate
That I would now choose hell o’er heaven’s gate.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 337

I did not write to win here love or like
But to in words proud passion yet implore
That you might see me in a poet’s light
And in sweet verse my soul to you out pour;
There I of meager worth beyond cavil,
Judged so by sight that gauged my lacking form,
I reached to touch you with my tattered quill
In hope  that feathered vane of truth inform;
Where eyes lack wonder, what to seek in praise
That might ignite some semblance of desire,
And in such musings might such eyes there gaze
On proof in wit, faint longing to inspire?
I am not worthy, this I understand,
Yet simply state, I write therefore I am.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Killing Time

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

That you could not control me was my fault
For female wiles oft thrive on this consent
To lock up male passion in a vault
And so contrive to hide all ill intent;
Incarcerate fond love and throw the key
That love might serenade from gilded cage,
But love’s a bird that only sings when free
Languishing quite when trilling but to cadge.
It raised your ire that I not play this game,
What prize to win when you make all the rules?
For living thus does make all love a sham
And matches such are but the sport of fools.
True love is played out best in equal part,
What zeal to gain when chains restrain one heart?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 335

All covet beauty for its lustrous power
For glamour is the monarch most men serve,
And be such reign not longer than an hour
Small fortunes paid in gold for that sweet myrrh;
Emblazoned so, the weak sex tastes of might
That has cleaved coeurs of kings no sword could slay
And even sovereigns with their glass may fight
To find reflections they would have portrayed.
A lovely face can be a regal crown
Whose sovereign shine shall yet time’s tarnish fear,
Of birthright pure, or paint, still held on loan
Wherein default may try in less a year.
Such is the paradox vanity imparts,
Where jester may yet rule as queen of hearts.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 334

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 and things they did do
To alter the landscape of odes lyrical?
The point of this rune is that we don’t know
What talent excels in the souls that we meet,
But by bending an ear we may at least show
A knowledge that worth may be hidden complete;
Yet though every heart a floret may thrill,
Clear not every bloom’s a damn daffodil!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.