I tossed a chicken from the wall
And watched her flap to break her fall;
She landed and looked up to say
Now child please, just go away!
I took another to the top
And like a stone I let her drop;
Bright crimson comb, a blur of white,
And like the other, landed quite.
I threw a third as if to prove
They could not fly quite like a dove;
In cackled curt cacophony,
She landed proud for all to see.
A pantomime of feathered mirth,
Yet to a child some thoughts of worth;
Better weak wings to break one’s fall,
Than flapping arms when off the wall.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sylvia, sweet and light of heart was she,
A flower garden bloomed within her breast;
Upon her crown, spice-scented ebony,
Her silken skin by alabaster blessed;
Dark eyes enchanted with angelic light,
Rose lips did burn with honeyed rapture sweet;
Soft touches tender tingled sheer delight—
Her virtue did with cherub hearts compete.
By heaven’s grace she wandered to my arms;
I oft in moonlight watched her peaceful sleep,
My soul immersed in her ethereal charms,
Entranced by love I knew not how to keep.
Sweet memory is a prison of a kind,
Where love that’s lost still chains the heart and mind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

For whom, I ask, defends the vegetable?
While worms win rights with lobbyists and terms;
From garden plot to torture table led,
What rights has he, if none but to conform?
All life should fear such blind hypocrisy—
“One life, one vote!” the weeping carrot cries;
Yet justice fails in full democracy,
Where tyrannies of numbers there apply.
In sunless rows they wait their earthly doom,
Untimely ripped from roots—his cries disdained;
Oft singled out because his skin is orange,
Then rudely pared by knives and fully maimed.
Fight on brave root! Stop culinary blight—
The pure elite will serve you well tonight!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

On one clear and fresh spring morning
I sat against a tree,
And spied a pretty butterfly
Which lighted on my knee.
Its’ wings of gossamer splendor
And heavens jewelry.

I fancied there to capture it
And keep it just for me,
But conscience quick betrayed my plan
And warned me sullenly,
That beauty reigns not from a cage
And withers when not free.

A parable was then recalled
Into my memory
That stated that if somethings’ loved
And then fondly released,
That it will soon return to you;
Or such should never be.

Thinking this, I uncupped my hands,
And swept it to the breeze,
And watched it exit from my sight,
Oh, floating merrily.
I waited all the summer long;
Yes, waited patiently.

The butterfly did not return
Though many did I see.
Others perhaps more beautiful,
Adorned exquisitely.
Yes, many pretty butterflies…
But not the one for me.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She shuns the hand of man, yet mourns alone,
Displays her charms, then spurns the glancing eye;
Declares she speaks in truth’s unvarnished tone—
While rouge and powder hint, perhaps, a lie.
She needs a glass to peer beyond the face,
A faithful lens to show the soul entire,
Not one that flatters, veils, or would erase
The dissonance ‘twixt candor and desire.
O masked deceit, your tears may well persuade,
But virtue’s claim grows hollow in disguise;
That purity you oft have sought portrayed,
When vows are praised, distrust is quick to rise.
By candlelight your honeyed mask beguiles;
But sunlight shows what every tongue reviles.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Love is not blind, but sees with sacred sight,
A sweetness hope might scarcely recognize;
Such vision shared ignites love’s ardent light,
Forgiving flaws where others would divide.
Yet what love sees, to others seems purblind,
For love can see the essence of the soul,
Accepting faults that others would not bide—
Fair judgement not of parts, but of the whole.
Love is the core of every human bond
That holds steadfast against the trials of time;
It lives in lover’s hearts, past death beyond—
Celestial fires that burn with light sublime.
In your bright eyes I see eternity;
Elysium’s flowers dancing in the breeze.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Nakedness and nudity are not the same you see,
Though both can be examples of man’s hypocrisy;
For the truth is often naked, but it is seldom nude
And nudity’s not truthfulness, though oft considered rude.
Yet both describe the lack of clothes as though ’twere but the same,
But when man talks morality, one’s profound and one’s profane.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

From the first smile until the last tear falls;
From strident cry unto soft rattled moan;
From that first glance a mother’s heart enthralls,
Until the final glimpse of casket gloam.
Yet though we know life’s prelude and its end,
We may not know the hand that turns each page,
Nor how life’s fleeting dramas twist or wend,
When grief or glory steps upon our stage.
Yet who would but forgo a mother’s touch,
And who of flesh would scorn love’s first sweet kiss?
Or who might deem a father’s pride too much,
Or fail to see a newborn child a bliss?
Though grim the story seems that ends in death,
Within each line, lives joy in every breath.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What can I say that was not said before?
Yet still you importune with lying eyes;
Comportment past attests you are a whore,
Now shamelessly returned to ply your wiles.
I begged you not to scorn these loving arms
But high on lust or spite, you chose to leave;
And now, sham victim of some grievous harms,
Love spurned, come back in tears, on bended knees.
Still worse, I learn that you are ripe with child—
Yes, heavy with disaster’s bastard now;
And here returned with but a strumpet’s smile
To state misfortune’s mine; that I should know.
We once shared misery, oh woe betide!
Now mine’s expelled, and yours grown deep inside.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sweet death! That blessed sleep in endless night
That frees us from the burdens of life’s dray;
Though colors ever bring the mind delight,
Who would eschew soft dusk at end of day?
Of peace and solitude that knows no end
Who dares complain of such a tranquil fate?
Who wakes from restful slumber to lament,
That quietude did not but aggravate?
As surely as soft moon succeeds harsh sun,
As surely as bright sky shall fade to black,
Why dread that time when worldly work is done
And we embrace a sleep that ever lasts?
Men fear not death, but dreams that there arise—
Of dreadful hell, or banal paradise.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.