Author: Loubert S Suddaby

Sonnet 524

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
I weep when hollow victory songs are sung,
I weep the passing of all squandered days,
I weep for worthy projects left undone,
I weep for every word of hollow praise.
I mourn the love betrayed by dark deceit,
I mourn for friends lost to death’s endless night,
I mourn the march of seasons passing sweet,
I mourn the lack of wisdom in our sight.
What matters most is that the soul stay true—
No idle hand will know fair triumphs wrought;
False tongues will ever righteousness undo,
Success is not a conquest to be bought;
True honor lies in struggle and in pain—
While fortune’s gifts are empty, void and vain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 523

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I met with Wordsworth one embattled night
Where so I thought—his eyes, some rancor bore,
Perhaps of meter, not of words, his gripe…
Or that I just had matched his sonnet score.
We drank the sullied hours until the dawn
And there I learned what broke his noble pen;
It was his lovely Dora—heaven gone—
That razed him to the ranks of mortal men.
Some say he waned by age and pleurisy
But he confirmed it was a shattered heart
That so perplexed the Physics there to see
The growing pain from which he did depart.
He shook my hand and bade me soft farewell,
More of this congress…I shall never tell.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 522

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What was the magic that did touch my heart,
When first I gazed so softly in your eyes?
From that sweet hour, I knew we’d never part
Until the sun no more on earth should rise.
What was the essence that enthralled me there,
A glance, a smile, a touch, a gentle sigh?
A furtive look that caught unaware—
And left my soul to search and wonder why?
Love is a bond, no mortal eye can see,
Yet stronger than all trusses wrought by man;
A staunch conviction that shall ever be
Born out of ardor—and to always stand.
It is a promise made to outlast time;
The finest edict of the human mind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 521

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Of life’s true meaning, what can hope devise
To lead us through the span from birth to death;
What does the struggle of long years comprise—
Does providence so drive each sacred breath?
Some in this passage solely lust for fame
While yet for others, wealth’s the measured best.
The wicked choose decay and ruin to claim;
The good, to God’s benevolence lay quest.
The common man lives simply, day to day
Content to dream of better things to come;
Walking in peace along the humbler way,
Waiting for God to call his spirit home;
Yet all that truly counts, in final score—
Lies in the blood ahead, and that afore.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 520

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We are all different and yet still the same—
All cast within the mold of humankind;
Our differences, both blessing and a bane
That binds us fast, then sunder over time.
We shade in doubt thoughts we don’t understand,
Yet from these shadows, great truths will oft arise—
While groupthink there will strive to countermand
The crucial sparks creative minds devise.
We scorn the truths our reason fails to grasp,
And many sweeping visions are maligned;
Yet when impossibles from whims amass—
How obvious the course! How clear the find!
We swiftly judge by rules we can’t define—
All men are equal, yet some still deemed, divine.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 519

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So may I praise what fortune has bestowed,
And all the blessings that befell me here;
Yet mourn I still the prizes once I sought,
That slipped my grasp—oh bounty once held dear!
It is but nature still to crave for more
Well knowing that indulgence is a sword—
And double-edged, it may the soul still score,
There in success, the spirit, sadly gored.
What gain is found by gorging to excess,
Or loving more than one pure heart should dare,
Or wielding wealth to flaunt in proud largesse,
Or chasing fame beyond what truth would bear?
The greater good lies in the humbler treasure,
As heaven’s sun burns bright in tempered measure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 518

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I write these lines beneath the sting of tears
Peine forte et dure weighs upon my breast;
Scant hope remains, within these gnawing fears—
An agony that only death may rest.
You chose to leave, and left me here alone,
As winter’s pallor veiled the ashen sky
While chimney smoke bowed low to winds that moan
In solemn deference to forsaken cries.
For what remains when Heaven’s light is gone,
When stricken prayers beseech stern ears of stone?
The tarot ten of swords here rudely drawn,
And I lie prostrate, on misfortune thrown.
A prisoner bound, condemned to meet my death—
Yet still your servant to my final breath.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 517

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Winter’s wrath returns, his ice-etched frown
Now ruffles feathers of dear birds soon flown,
A pallid cloak enshrouds the frozen ground
Where fragrant blooms but recently were strown.
The sun now weak, his bloodshot eye peers down
On barren fields once burgeoned ripe with grain,
Glad golden bounty rich, now wholly gone—
Razed by stern winds to bleak embattled plains.
Though girded gold and green must surely pass,
So heralding life through season’s tinctured time
Where nothing good or ill can ever last—
No blessing bright, nor any callous crime:
As ice shall melt when vernal voices sing,
So from dark dirges, hope does ever spring.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 516

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About a manger, ‘neath auspicious light
That silver’d o’er a scene of prophecy,
A darkened stable, gilded Holy bright
Bore promise of that which they’d come to see.
The Magi kneeling, ushered by a star,
Or yet perhaps an occultation seen —
So bearing gifts dream fostered from afar
To spread before the newborn Savior’s feet.
On Golden hay lay Frankincense and Myrrh,
A preordained nativity vivant;
Dialectic proof of virgin birth—
That none who knelt in faith could e’er recant;
Soft in their silence spoke both ox and ass,
‘The barn is warm…and yes, this too shall pass.’

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.