Sophie

So she was fallen in the night,
By limbs now wizened there betrayed;
A tired heart bereft of might,
A body beaten, time decayed.
Did she perhaps call out my name
That I return the help she gave
For but to render there the same,
I might have eased her to the grave.
But I was many miles gone
With arms too short to reach her hand,
The love and life that she did spawn
Now wandered in a foreign land.
Perhaps she knew I loved her more
Than sons have ever loved a grace
And from my breast sweet passion tore
The wish that I had seen her face,
And told her in that fading light
That all she did was good and right.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 553

So do I love you now, as ever, more
And nay, it matters not if you love me
For unrequited yet I bear the scorn—
So indivisible this pledge to thee.
Here bid me leave and heavy I shall go,
Tell me stay, and happy I rejoice;
To love’s command my future I bestow
So be that power in your darling voice.
Love’s grace is not contingent on a plan
Nor does it bide upon some sole decree,
It is a force ethereal and grand
That binds like souls in peerless harmony;
By word alone I here so live or die:
Love is to be, and never wonder why.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 552

What does it matter that we loved a day,
A week, a month, a year, a lifetime — more?
What matters most is not what time should say
For depth of passion ever bests that score.
Time more confounds but ever yet subtends
The mortal measure of sweet ardor spanned
And so, despite the blights all love contends,
Exalts in those brief hours she commands.
So be our time together short or long
And ever like the tides, love wax and wane;
Though notes of doubt may tremulate our song,
Within your grace I pray I shall remain.
Let time but stay as sequent seasons changed
And through it all, our love remain the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 551

What loathe defeat by blackest infamy,
What loss of face, what coup to dearest pride!
What sour chagrin splashed in that note to see
Sweet proffered troth in curdled ink denied.
My heart cleaved quite by simple words alone
And rended so upon a parchment rind;
A strike through flesh unto the very bone
Where never seemed a blow yet more unkind.
You do not love me, iron gall propounds—
That kneeled pledge within your drawing room
Shall ever truth and beauty’s hope confound:
All meted life from here a living tomb.
Was I not worth a meeting face to face…
No stauncher heart by cursive black disgraced.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 550

When I first touched your hand I cannot tell
For in the mists it lingers with your smile
To resonate much like a soft rung bell
That gently fades into the distant while;
And when of time we shared the primal kiss,
Of many since, it seems a drop of rain
That fell with many on broad fields of bliss
And did asperge the vast unsettled main.
So bless sweet time that blurs when it began
There clouding memories of love’s prime embrace,
So seems the blush of fervor on the pan
That once ignited, ever souls engrace.
It matters not when love first claimed the heart;
It matters most that we shall never part.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 549

Now summer’s velvet, haughty, hot replete
Of burning incense borne by August blooms,
Steam sauna skies to baste in hothouse heat,
Limp listless earth benumbed by Maenad tunes.
Cicada screams now undulate the air
As grackles stalk the misty seas of green,
Dark starlings march, black lines of bleak despair
To seek, destroy, dismantle and demean.
That regal eye now burns into the souls,
Dense hapless few still prostrate on the ground
With mien beheld by brave or abject fools
Who yet defy reprieve in shadows found.
By shade of umbrage, so bemused I squint,
Bemoan my state and raise a julep mint.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 548

With summer’s heat now broiling broccoli trees
And not a zephyr’s kiss to daub my brow,
I longed for cloud or best, a gentle breeze
To cool my face and soothe it’s florid glow.
White cotton twill now steamed against my skin
Swill sopped in sweat, damp hanging in despair;
Rank smell of roses roasting in the sun
And lilac pyres’ incense on the air.
A wing aloft, poor Icarus aflame
Circling slowly searching for some shade,
Perhaps a vulture skirring for the lame
To mark in pirouettes, a looming grave.
So sat I sullen, winter on my mind…
And were I there, soft praying warmth to find.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 547

He stood the greatest man that never was
Least there among the shields of gilded fame,
Yet truth and duty always marked his cause
And ever proud was he of his good name.
If virtue called the measure, he stepped tall,
Of selfless acts, his person knew no bounds;
If kindness were the chart he bested all—
In love, no purer heart has yet been found.
Yet being human, yes he was still flawed
And sported emblems both of right and wrong;
But of his quiet strength all still stayed awed
For to the rarest manhood he belonged.
He faded in a glory seldom sung,
When all the sweet of life from him was wrung.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.