Author: Loubert S Suddaby

Sonnet 399

On By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment
Were I but now the pitch-dark crow that flies
Or yet a plain drab beetle on the ground,
A golden eagle circling through the skies
Or Yeti crab in ocean’s crevice found—
Here still supernal light would course my veins
Imbuing there an essence old as time,
Whether I soar above or haunt the mains,
All share a bond that no soul dare malign.
A life is life—be it the great or small—
Our kinship strung on sacred, spiral strands;
Whether we run, fly, slither, swim or crawl,
All grace born of four letters writ in sand.
So if these brethren vanish, n’er to see—
How desolate our world would truly be.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 398

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Blaze autumn leaves illumine things I know
But none more poignant than of passing time;
For all the things the living earth bestows
Enjoys at best a brief and measured prime.
The height of man, a many seasoned reign—
Much longer than the span of leaf or flower,
Yet still his joy and strength begin to wane
And with time’s dregs, he yields his final hour.
What can one do but yet enjoy the bloom
That is here granted by that unseen hand,
For none it seems rejoice within the tomb—
Save worms which scriptured augurs countermand.
Thus what rings true of that beyond the grave…?
Sweet buds of spring proclaim that promise made.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 397

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You search your glass for golden yesterday—
You seek out joy, yet only sorrow find;
Who is that woman in the mirror you say,
Her looks so wan—fair colors dulled by time?
Dusk shadowed eyes now stare as hope bereft
From that aged rose whose petals, listless, lorn,
Once graced the gardens of the fashioned best
And many glossed lapels they once adorned.
Where is that precious fragrance, ah, the bloom
That lured so many like drab wings to flame?
Where lies the essence that could light a room,
That tigress presence taunting to be tamed?
There stands no greater force to humble pride
Than anguished musings of when beauty died.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 396

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We shared a pen as though a common voice,
For many miles withheld the touch of hand;
Your scented letters made my heart rejoice
As surely as fine gifts from foreign lands.
I checked the post on nearly every morn—
No sweeter joys to find on paper white,
And read aloud in tones to words adorn,
Your sprightly visage dancing in my sight.
As ways led on to ways and ardor waned,
The sun arose each day and birds would sing;
Thin bonds of ink that distance ever strains,
Seemed faded as the visions they would bring.
It isn’t that I had no more to say…
But simply that my life got in the way.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 395

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Now naught is left in life’s dim course for me—
All sweetness gone, pure nowt, no grace remains;
What joy is there when weary eyes must see
Blanched knuckles clenched and fury’s ruddy stains.
I gave my all and pushed it to the edge,
My heart and soul now battle-scarred and numb;
‘Gainst rising wrath, I raised an armored hedge
And laid in siege of better days to come;
But no detente, and surely no retreat,
Though long my urge to cast the gauntlet down —
Better here sweet death than sour defeat,
Wherein black fields more bitter blood is sown.
So mighty titans did in combat rage:
No loss; no win; destruction but their gauge.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 394

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Thus we embraced as intimates of mind,
In cursive lines each traced the other’s face,
On paper prisms, hearts were rayed in kind
Though never having basked beneath shared gaze.
I fell in love through romanced sight of soul
That rose hand graven from sweet perfumed ink,
By words alone, my love you seemed to know,
And of your kindness, often I did think
How two of separate peace might be so one—
And though imagined, still we spoke in tune
Where every line there written seemed a song
That caused my pride and purpose so to swoon.
Each week a scented letter bore your name;
Until one day on paper—hope lay slain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 393

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The forward view of life from youth is long,
Bold sanguine sally sure of ample years;
From aged stance, reflection seems a song
That lingers on the lips of those held dear.
Oh how does passing time our brains beguile
Where years to weeks confound, and weeks to days?
Would but the aching length of lover’s miles
Contract to measured inches in these ways!
Time’s wields his power from a stingy throne—
And rarely grants beyond four score and ten
Bequeathing life at best on shackled loan;
A bounty that will not be spent again.
I smile and gaze upon my grandchild’s face
Where love and hope eternal, Time disgrace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 392

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O where is Sylvia, mystic maid of time
Who for a moment reigned in passion pure?
All eyes to praise her essence, sweet, sublime—
Though few did see that heart of love demure;
I left her last, still naked, ‘neath the moon…
White silken skin bathed in a lustrous light,
Slim arms askew as in a gentle swoon,
Strawberry lips aglow in candlelight;
I exited her chamber duty bound
Not knowing as I closed that shadowed door,
That there my fondest hopes I would impound
And strive in search of love forever more.
Though silver light may bathe dear sylphs in kind—
No peace remains while she still roams my mind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 391

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Would it not bless you more if these dear words
Might linger in the wandering mists of time,
That whomsoever might yet read this verse
Would feel your essence in each scriven line?
Pray they dwell not upon the pen or hand
That writ these lines, save for sweet passion framed,
For yet in truth, a dullard could command
Some lofty phrase in which their love is named.
In simplest sense some may my ardor note
Perhaps remarking, ‘what so drives this soul
To strive with longing lines and there to dote
Upon this mystic maiden words can’t show?’
Here even doubt proves yet my saving grace
‘Mongst knowing souls who’ve gazed on such a face.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 390

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Rest now your eyes upon sweet Chanticleer,
That rugged shore where winds and waters greet
Intrepid souls that bear life’s pompous jeers—
Proud dauntless hearts downtrodden in defeat;
‘Tis here you’ll find light balms to wounds assuage
And ever still, sound refuge from the storm,
Though out beyond the lea, fierce battles rage,
This port of heart and hearth shall keep you warm.
Here then lift up a dram to spirits raise,
And hearten so spent voices into song
That in sound verse we bless in righteous praise
This rampart of the soul that I call home.
As long as wind and wave shall kiss this shore—
So bides my essence here — forevermore.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.