Sonnet 459

Of all the lines I’ve written these be yours,
And may your eyes alone these words engrace,
Not that this verse serve trope of proffered flower,
But more as truth in tears upon this page.
For me you have defined what true love is
In times of passion and in perilous doubt—
When all seemed lost, your gentle heart gave bliss
And sweet impromptu smiles drove shadow out.
Without your essence what would my life be…
A sad procession of proud worried days,
A strained bravado tossed on odysseys 
A quest of honor false and worthless praise?
I penned this to rhythm of my heart
That we remain as one, and never part.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 458

How clever is the hare whose coat does change
To suit the seasons as they come and go,
So matching colors to the shifting range,
A magic garment circumstance controls.
In spring a mottled match of brown and white
And summer’s best, a blush of chestnut hues;
Autumn’s span a race to winter’s blight,
Yet which to don and still upon what cue?
This costumery garb couched in intrigue,
It’s clever purpose clear of wit designed
To outfox those who cannot see the need
Of vestments worn to yet dumb fate align.
Transmuting raiments for another’s eyes,
How like a woman in this wily guise.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 457

Raw tension in the east marks his return,
Rude, radiant, replete with sovereign grace;
A smile so bright that every shadow burns
Or slinks away from that bold fearsome face.
A God for to whom once mighty Egypt bowed,
Where basted backs raised sepulchers of stone
That haughty kings might rest forever proud
‘Neath grandest tombs the world has ever known.
So rises now the glory and the power,
With scimitar of gold to smite the land
His gaudy gaze and galvanizing glower
To animate all minions meek or grand.
Ascension granted daily without strife;
The uncontested giver of all life.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 456

Those swollen undulations rest my cheek
And lo, the drum beat of my love I hear,
That sound that says love waits not for the meek;
All triumph stems from deeds of ones who dare.
Could she but know these dreams are hers to bless,
Or that my hopes reach to the moon on high;
That I would die here for her happiness,
And for her favor, I would ever vie?
All is lost— anon she weds another—
Black hours of fate draw near to crush my soul.
Could she yet have the strength to flout her father
And run with me not knowing where we go?
The morning sun now gathers in the east…
And to unbridled love, the final test.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 455

Blessed are the meek which hope alone sustains,
Content to grace life’s stage for heavens’s hour,
Who’s measured time marks little progress gained
Save that which spills forth from the marriage bower.
Rough heather on the meads, that mauvish blight
Fair spreads across the heath and yet beyond,
As if a flower and weed did so unite
To form a purple plight of beauty thrawn.
Long after daffodils have met their doom,
The foxgloves and the bluebells fade to green
And large the sweets that hail from nature’s womb,
Have lost their promise and since fled the scene;
Here yet the humble heather lives and breathes,
Though mighty tread and bouquet seekers grieve.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 454

I have felt the slings of fortune’s might,
His crooked knife plunged deep into my side;
The oft spewed venom of his black mouthed spite
Devised to taint all minds with poison plied.
I have seen him light false fires of hope
To lead brave reinforcements far astray
And battered men in grim surrender grope
For mercy, yet their lives be cut away.
Still I survived and not the worse it seems,
No, wiser more for but that gauntlet lashed,
For of scorned virtue, oft the truth redeems
Whatever wicked lies false tongues have passed.
Forget not then of fortune’s Janus face,
Where evil often serves itself as grace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 453

Now she is gone and I sit here alone,
Perhaps it’s but one anguish less to ponder;
No abject fervor searing to the bone,
That battle of the wills shall try no longer.
I am not saddened; no not sad at all—
This feeling much akin to truce in war;
In truth a muted joy that none shall fall,
Relief now won, but yet no evened score.
Still quiet peace is never to be shunned,
Mute solace is a refuge spirits seek
Where wounded souls stark feelings yet unplumbed
Can so be measured, be they bright or bleak;
And so in silence I now sit and muse,
Detente in love seems but a loss we choose.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 452

I traveled on a shooting star one day
And saw massed souls all thronging heaven’s gate;
Wrought iron stood to block that pearly way,
Pressed hands in steepled form set there to wait;
The grounds were littered quite with crumpled prayers
High piled in mounds against the golden walls
And yet beyond the gilded confines there
The edifice seemed dark, as in a pall.
The keeper of the keys could not be seen
More gates beyond that door, a dozen sure,
At lower heights were scrawled some words obscene
And near the crowd a toppled lectern clear.
I wondered as I rode that stellar span,
Upon return, perhaps a novel plan.

Sonnet 451

Sweet Selena, I see you have returned,
Your silken smile now lights the forest bright;
Perhaps you knew each day my heart has yearned,
Each clouded evening longing for your sight.
I watch that point above the distant trees
Where you appear much like a cresting sail,
Proud ship of joy returned on scented breeze,
Hope buoyed delight, dear lover’s arms to hail.
Pale visage now above the velvet dark
Ascending slowly on the purple air
With mien of gilded empress you embark
Upon your journey to some kingdom fair.
I bask in twilight blanched by silver grace,
Soft burnished beams that do my soul embrace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.