Dread death deprives good men of lives,
It’s breed that’s their revenge.
Below hard stones lie hallowed bones,
That once did death avenge.
But come each day, and come what may,
The fight remains infernal.
It’s in a poem they shall come home
To praise brave hearts eternal.

The fight is long and must go on,
We live or yet we die.
We shall not yield ‘for God’s our shield,’
This is our battle cry.
The charge is made and bodies laid,
‘Midst blood and crud and steel.
It’s do or die, with swords held high,
Blood rage now wrought with zeal.

‘Til wrath is spent and steel bent
The wine of life be spilled;
And blades shall flash and teeth shall gnash
‘Til vengeful hearts be filled.
Yet where is pride when men have died,
For causes false not true.
And who shall pay when kings waylay,
Whose hearts will feel the rue.

It’s not for kings or venal things
Brave men lay down their lives.
It’s for their breed and things they heed –
Their rights, their creed, their wives.
When spirits flee to distant lee
And tender hearts be torn.
True love’s the wain that bears the pain;
And will forever more.

But men of right fear not the night
And make that sacrifice.
Their hearts they give, that others live,
In love that never dies.
But come each day and come what may
The fight remains infernal.
It’s in a song they shall march on,
To live in praise eternal.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

If I might sow a line for you in time,
On what fair aspect of you should it dwell?
Should it be prose—or better still, a rhyme?
What silent secrets of you might it tell?
Of peerless grace and beauty would it speak?
(Well knowing words can never capture worth.)
Or should it sing of sterling heart replete
With virtues rarely seen upon the earth?
To willingly commit to such a task,
Yet setting out the goal in but one phrase,
Is but an errand that a fool may ask;
(Or yet a lovesick muse bereft of praise.)
One line but sown with seed as rich as you,
In time, from ink, this sonnet tribute grew!

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

So could these words survive all mortal time
And final eyes upon this memory gaze.
The last of course would have no need for rhyme-
Nor need to hear an ancient poet rave.
It is my hope that this brief simple verse
Would bring sweet memory of his dearest past,
And stay his dwelling on that evil curse
That left him here to be the very last.
To call upon the warmth of lover’s eyes;
The gentleness of his sweet mother’s touch;
A child whose truth he gently helped to guide;
Dear hearts exalted that did give so much.
For love remembered can all grief abate,
And smiles not tears should welcome heaven’s gate.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Since there must be this time, then be it now.
Yes, you must go, so bid your sad adieu.
Do not pretend and wait to knit my brow,
With honed deceit designed to run me through.
For months this heavy heart has slowly bled
Well knowing that this time was sure to come;
And bleeding so did thus release all dread,
Absolved my care, and wore my conscience numb.
We duel no more—all rancor here is spent,
And that which Heaven ordained is surely gone.
So if you were a gift from Heaven sent-
Then damn me to that Hell where I belong.
For love of god, you know I kept my oath—
And your black heart did but betray us both.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Perhaps, but richer words should guide my pen,
Fair lofty lines that seem from heaven sent;
Enraptured with the brilliance of the sun
Yet tempered with a moonbeam’s sentiment.
Some iridescent phrase that can command
And catch at once the hearts of those who hear,
Then with that stately power here commend
A gift whose worth endures through all the years.
This golden pen should scrive this for my love,
Yet knowing ink could ne’er describe her worth,
I meekly call to gods that dwell above-
And thank them for this angel set on earth.
Still, humblest words that spring forth from the heart,
Gift more than gilded pens could e’er impart.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

This morning finds me mute and so I write;
My spirit, sore and sullen as the day.
Yet with just bounty, sadly still I gripe
Of futures dreamt that wretched time waylaid.
Did I but choose or was my course fair given?
Did fate or chance etch lines upon my chart?
Will fortunes rise or yet remain unleavened?
Upon whose stage do I now rant my part?
No gods or kings have deemed this life as cursed,
Though long I’ve trekked, my course remains unknown.
If but an actor, no lines have I rehearsed.
If fortune’s fool, the die long-cast is done.
Should to this journey fate remain unkind,
The greatest hardship leaves my love behind.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

If slander stains my name, then be it so—
Rude jealousy takes aim at higher mark.
Men of just standing plainly come to know
That knaves and fools such drivel do impart.
Black words so said or writ are easy paid,
Only shaded minds provide them worth,
For  spreading such works to whose guileful aid?
And what dark craft gives such deceit its berth?
All men of sense do know, be well assured;
That truth trumps falsehood ever is the case.
In voice and action, lies will be demurred,
For truth, in time, can never be defaced,
And men of lies shall ever meet defeat—
And men of virtue ever will be great.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

It was not love that struck me at first sight,
Not Cupid’s dart that did arrest me there;
But something in an instant did ignite
A flame of passion that did surely flare.
And glim to blaze did swiftly grow anon
Consuming reason, wit and common sense.
Outshining logic which did soon abscond
And left this blind pursuit its recompense.
This swain did swoon and sightless ventured forth,
Proclaiming visions in so wild a state
That sober listener not yet weighing worth,
Felt sure he must fair gaze through heaven’s gate.
That love is blind ’tis but no wonder so—
For souls in love see not but beauty’s show.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

No power on earth supplants your boundless love,
And I, its vassal, sworn to service be.
Yet not for land, nor gold, nor gifts above
Do I submit to this sweet fealty.
Still, in these lines my homage is as clear
As any oath that ever yet was sworn;
And never was a pledge held yet so dear
That gods and kings all judgement may adjourn.
This love is as a passion pure and right
In such true service I am proud to stand;
Unto this duty I devote my life—
This vow to live until my life shall end.
By power of love I therefore crown you queen;
As in love’s labor, ever have I been.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.