Author: Loubert S Suddaby

Sonnet 552

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
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 might say
For depth of passion ever bests that score.
Time oft confounds and ever will contend
The mortal measure of love’s ardor spanned
And so, despite the blights all love attends,
She shines in those brief hours she commands.
So be our time together short or long
And ever like the tides, love wax and wane;
Though doubt may echo faintly through our song,
Within your grace, I pray I shall remain.
Let time but stay as sequent seasons change—
And through it all, our love remain the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 551

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What loathsome blow by blackest infamy,
What loss of face, what coup to dearest pride!
What sour chagrin dashed 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 stroke 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 life henceforth becomes 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

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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 silent while;
And when I call to mind our primal kiss,
Of many since, it seems a drop of rain
That fell with others on broad fields of bliss
And mingled with the vast, unsettled main.
So bless sweet time that blurs when love began,
That clouds the memory of our first embrace—
It sparked from just a glim in Cupid’s hand,
And once ignited, warmed the heart’s embrace.
It matters not when love first claimed the heart;
What matters most is we shall never part.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 549

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Now summer’s velvet, haughty, hot replete—
Saccharine incense burned from August blooms,
Steam sauna skies to baste in hothouse heat,
Limp listless earth bewitched 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,
Those hapless few still prostrate on the ground,
Staunch 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

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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 its 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, sure praying warmth to find.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 547

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He stood the greatest man that never was
Lost 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.
Still being human, yes he was so 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.

Sonnet 546

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There is no greater gift than that we share
That magic bond so often named as love,
Life’s grand elation yet beyond compare
Whose bumptious shows but little truth can prove.
Love as a sentiment needs no display—
Why pledge or strive for what already is?
For truth is not made true by what we say,
Bold proof of love more how we think and live.
Thus rarely do I say I love you so
And seldom do you say you love but me;
Love’s strength is not a brassy outward show,
But is an essence we both live and breathe.
No boastful act can ever love apprise;
It dwells in hearts and speaks through silent eyes.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 545

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What line of mine did waken to the mind
A gentle thought where fondness might soon dwell
To so ignite a placid heart in rhyme
That it persuade flushed lips of love to tell?
Perhaps a simple chord sparked thoughts of me,
A murmured tune which fanned a gentle flame
That gave forth light whereby your soul might see
A common face now blazed by flare of fame.
I do confess my words were pure design
To fletch of Cupid’s shaft unerring flight
There striking fire within that heart sublime
That it might ever glow in ardor’s light.
And yes—in sweetest hope I did conspire
To guide in verse that bolt of pure desire.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 544

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So deemed a tawdry object, marked for lust,
As to caress her form with hungry eyes,
The thought, the tongue, deft digits yet to thrust,
All brutal means voraciousness supplies;
Reluctant dress hooks, oft the lovers bane—
Rude wrenched asunder—garments hit the floor,
Red pouting lips that drive the mind insane,
Lace bodice ripped, her loveliness outpoured;
A breathless rush hot seared in passion’s fire,
All reason scorched, a lust-fueled firestorm;
Bare beast of ages raging in desire,
A carnal demon cast in human form.
The brute, now sated, finds his reason torn—
Blood-guilt still smol’dring on that frock forlorn.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 543

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What force compels that still I seek you so?
What piqued in me that sudden strong desire
That should broad rivers bar, yet must I go—
Or trek a hundred miles and barely tire?
No obstacle could block that chosen route
Straight to your heart where sings the golden bird
Ensconcing beauty and resounding truth—
Attainment thus—the conquest of a world!
But if by some dark chance you love not me
And your sweet heart is to another given,
By blade alone I would so steel the need
To leave this life and seek a separate heaven.
Without your smile there is no morning sun—
There hope lies slain and my sad rune is done.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.