Sonnet 704

On March 13, 2025August 21, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

In ink I leave my thumbprint on this page;

A shadowed thought…some idiosyncrasy,

A semblance of reason, none can gauge—

For rarely do thoughts show reality.

Abstractions are the playthings of the soul,

Mere scattered toys of ink or paint or stone;

By quill or chisel, brush or sculptor’s trowel

On naked earth these baubles so are sown;

What most survives of all our relics cast

Than artifacts that seem to transcend time,

Concepts that rise above our brutish past—

That grasp at stars which only dreams refine.

Such are the curios of the restless mind,

Small proof of life by mortal hand enshrined.

Sonnet 703

On March 12, 2025August 21, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

I heard a murmur stir within her room,

Like faint wings tapping at a darkened pane;

The gentle whisper of a dove’s soft plume,

Or errant whisk of early morning rain.

Perhaps my love now stirred from dreams afar,

At breakfast she’ll apprise whereof she’s been;

Her chamber door, by chance, an inch ajar

That I might steal a furtive glimpse therein…

Dumbstruck to see two shadows near her bed

As one stole swiftly o’er the window sill,

From tender hope to panic and sheer dread

I summoned all the iron in my will;

But iron seemed that blade lodged in my heart—

In one swift instant, two hearts hewn apart.

Sonnet 702

On March 11, 2025August 21, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

To capture worlds within mere fourteen lines

Or praise stern gods in iambs much the same;

To laud a lover’s heart in formal rhyme

Or chastise fate with pithy lyric blame.

Abridged in verse, mute Heaven to entreat—

More apt to rouse dark devils from their lairs;

A terse rogation beckoning woe complete

Ensuring life stands rife with sheer despair.

In this, perhaps, I chart my destiny,

Scribed brash and blunt—a brazen tale of old,

A search for Aidenn, naught but Hell to see;

Broad Epics crushed to odelets in this mold.

By scope of Sonnet, I shall make it brief:

All afterworlds are lies; and Time’s a thief.

Sonnet 701

On March 10, 2025August 21, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

I bumped my head upon the moon last night,

‘Twas full and bright… my fault I must admit;

Though hidden by a tree that blocked its sight,

A simple truth that I must still submit.

Somehow I nudged it closer to the stars

That twinkled merrily in seeming mirth;

I heard a barn owl hooting from afar…

And too, soft chuckles from a tickled earth.

It seemed quite silly that a bumbling fool

Might entertain the universe this way…

I felt an urge to find some makeshift stool

And pull her back to where she used to lay;

On musing further, I presently did see,

Such machinations were sheer lunacy.

Sonnet 700

On March 9, 2025August 23, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

I know most words of love are fantasy

Though still my pen compels me here to write—

Deep mining verse for gems of jewelry

To string on hope—a necklace of delight.

Perhaps bedazzled images entreat—

Proud lovers strolling down a promenade,

Or riding horseback on a white sand beach,

Cloaked paramours at some grand masquerade.

To stir a stolid heart with but a quill,

A pot of ink, deft strokes on parchment page,

Suggesting prospects far beyond cavil…

In fear, igniting raw romantic rage—

But as a frantic moth that flouts a flame,

Quill pen on fire, I scribe on just the same.

Ecstasy

On March 9, 2025April 4, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

What tender majesty

As I lay surely dying in your arms—

My mind and body spent, float timelessly

Upon that endless ocean of your charms;

My sovereign soul so softly sojourns here

Adrift upon sweet rapturous delight,

That soothing calm beyond the raging storm,

Both nerve and sinew reft of mortal might.

Descending now, a heart late glory borne,

Awed detumescence of dear fantasies …

Fading now, daydreams enrapt in gloam—

Slow waning light, succumbing then to sleep.

The vital force of living fiber—gone

Sinking surely to a warm and blissful peace,

By mermaids songs to some deep cavern drawn

A soul transfixed, by love and lust replete;

Now full ensconced in shadows soft, serene…

Not caring who I am…or where I’ve been.

Sonnet 699

On March 6, 2025August 23, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

Love quietly sleeping in my feather bed,

Sweet Spring songs serenading silver panes;

Dark raven tresses wreathe her dreaming head

And soft the sound of gently falling rain…

Outside a call—a lone whippoorwill sings,

Sage prophet of the dusk and rising dawn,

Harbinger of fate’s uncertain wings—

His cryptic augury enshrined in song.

Yet now the world feels so wholly right;

No bird or beast to mar this peaceful morn,

No omen dark to cloud love’s perfect light

As cherished beauty lies in slumber, warm.

No prince or pauper met a grander day

For soon I kneel, and beg she ever stay.

Sonnet 698

On March 3, 2025August 23, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

Perhaps I loved too little or too much,

Perhaps fate deemed that love should never be,

Perhaps I begged too hard for tender touch,

Or lacked the art to court a lover’s plea.

The cause of love is rarely ever clear

And how we choose seems often unforeseen,

As if what stirs the heart is simply near—

Propinquity, not passion writes the scene.

Most times it seems that consorts’ faces mirror,

Each finding in the other half their own,

By arrogance or oddity quite queer—

Her face much his, though painted, plucked and toned.

That one should seek a face so much the same,

Suggests, perhaps, that self-love lights the flame.

Sonnet 697

On February 28, 2025July 15, 2025 By Loubert S SuddabyIn PoemsLeave a comment

Why write another ‘once upon a time’—

Some tired verse about ‘glad days of yore’,
Thin veil a ‘dark and stormy night’ in rhyme
Presaging voltas with ‘calm before the storm’?
If ink were blood, some dull and jagged phrase
Might edge my throat and leave me to my doom,
Black words on paper spreading ‘cross the page
As gore upon the floors of slaughter rooms.
This pen’s a sleek stiletto in my heart
That I drew forth, thus sealing here my fate,
With little time to draft my final part—
Spilled iron gall to mark my doom and date;
A lyric martyr, fading, quill in hand…
Murmuring softly, ‘I write therefore I am’.