I died a little every day, it seemed,

Raw sun and wind conspired to burn me blind,

While other vagaries of nature schemed

To strip away the marrow of my prime.

There through that gauntlet—every day, a price;

The brain, the bone, the sinew—all assailed—

Yet on I struggled, straining toward new heights;

Each win I charted trailed by two that failed.

But life is tethered more or less to hope,

Even as death stares straight into our eyes;

Still through the darkness ever more we grope

And yield our fondest dreams in compromise.

Life tests our mettle—our esse: what we are—

We stand in graves while reaching for a star.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

I see the green sprout joyful at his play—
He looks in awe at clouds up in the sky,
A stick upheld keeps dragons yet at bay,
Then comes the wonder of a butterfly…
A shriek of laughter at some unnamed joy,
He rolls through clover with imagined friends,
Paired with his shadow, kingdoms to destroy,
And now the garden’s gate to stand and fend.
I see him now beneath the gracious sun—
Handsome, tall, and strong—the boy become a man;
Behind him all the childhood battles—won,
Before him all life’s gloried victories planned.
One day—a battle with a wooden sword;
The next—a mission to reshape the world.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

Should I awake tomorrow and find you gone—
Forever fled from reach of hand or eye,
Like silken mists which can obscure the sun
And vanish in the wake of azure sky.
Could I be sure that you were ever here?
That once upon a time my life you graced?
That you were flesh and blood I held so near,
And not some blissful angel chance displaced?
For what could reassure me of such truth—
Persuade me it was not but hopeful dreams,
Nor yet some playful, though still cheerless ruse
That wishful mind conspired with memory?
Thus would my state be such if you should leave,
And I be left to wonder, more than grieve.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

As men and ages slowly fade to dust,
And worldly countenance gives way to change;
In wayward youth we place tomorrow’s trust,
While aged men look on in silent rage.
When facing where the arc of life is bound—
Where lies the wisdom of our yesteryears?
Why should the pace of time our hope impound?
Or rapid change fill rigid mind with fear?
That wisdom comes with age is often told,
But with it come restricted vision too;
‘Tis youth that spawns tomorrow’s righteous old,
And in so doing, stirs old strife anew;
Thus through the course of time this story wends,
To but begin again before it ends.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

When autumn’s heavenly alchemy
Does gild with gold the hues of summer past;
Fond memories of you return to me,
As I recount the joining of our paths.
I still recall the softness of your eyes;
The cascades of your lustrous raven hair;
In reverie you’re ever by my side—
In nightly dreams, you lie beside me there.
Truth, honesty and beauty fused in one—
A countenance of porcelain so fine;
A fairer flower never kissed the sun—
A rarer treasure, never could be mine.
What can a fool, in ink, attempt to do,
But pay tribute to an angel fair as you.

© Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

The thorn-crown worn by youth is wizened age,
Which righteous life or fickle chance bestow.
Though golden youth in time becomes the sage,
‘Cross Styx or pearly gate he still must go.
Yet what’s the gift when time hath stayed death’s hand—
A stooped-back frame, a cane, a toothless grin?
Too oft men deem that such a state is grand,
Till time’s harsh test leaves all their hopes chagrined.
When years transform bright eyes to dullest pearl,
And frailty creeps deep in every bone—
Is this the prize life’s promises unfurl,
When each must meet his destiny alone?
Perhaps ’tis but time’s wish to humble man,
And have him crawl, not march to meet his end.

©Loubert S Suddaby.  All Rights Reserved.

Blissful sleep, drown me in the warmth of night,
Disperse my troubles ‘midst the twinkling stars;
And all that wretched day has wronged set right,
Then float me to some distant tranquil shore.
Let darkness rob me of my memory,
Conjure instead kaleidoscopes of dreams
That bear me to a land of fantasy,
Where I can rest on silver-soft moonbeams.
Gentle sleep, quench the thirst of weariness
And rock me in the cradle of your arms;
Immerse me in the depths of peacefulness
And mock death’s shadow with your potent charms.
Dearest sleep, you are like the finest wine—
Which when quaffed deeply, serves to soothe the mind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.