Yes, every morning have I seen it so-
Heavenly orb arise on earth anew,
Bringing glad promise in a garish glow
Like phoenix born from ash where once it grew.
Thus climbs the fiery grace to zenith high
Then fades the conflagration here anon,
And in so doing proclaims darkness nigh
That glorious gift, scarce given, now is gone.
So rises human hope on gilded wings—
A promise flawed as any ever made;
Celestial malfeasance that ere brings
A dying floret to a living grave.
Yet though each morn false promise may portend;
Your loves’ my hope, and hope shall never end.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, seasons change but not your constant heart,
Now in my autumn years I see this so,
Relentless change is etched on nature’s chart
And time may come—but time must surely go,
But no, not you, steadfast and yet unshaken!
Against the vagaries of time you stand,
And though, in words, your measure can’t be taken,
I count you still my lover and my friend;
For in glad life, no greater gift is this
Than love’s sweet pledge to weather callous time,
No memory is as strong as love’s first kiss—
Your toil, your trust, your truth lives in this rhyme.
Though changing seasons may yet squander life-
Could words attest…you’ll ever be my wife.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Midst blackest hours of a hideous night
I here do sit and contemplate my fate,
For in such hour there is no darker plight—
When gods and demons both collaborate.
But yet what mortal soul should beg such wrath
Or such fierce counsel here itself convene?
What mighty sin yet calls me here to task?
What maxim could a humble life demean?
Perhaps I’m but a pawn in some great game
Of chance, the rules of which remain unknown,
And winning thus, what could contenders gain
Were legions great the paltry to o’erthrow?
Yet what to ask when gods or worlds collide
Save for swift death; then bravely step aside.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Black lines! Trite stirrings of a hapless muse
Still dare attempt to call in abject rhyme
A fitting tribute, as if Orpheus
Himself had writ them in some ancient time;
But no, mean verse moves not the savage heart
Nor sways the will of dread Persephone;
Yet as a lover I must play my part
And plead my case ‘gainst cosmic enmity.
These words by mortal hand were sadly writ
And clearly thus no godly graces claim—
Yet Gods and Graces may themselves commit
To verse and rhyme that sing sweet love’s refrain;
But if these words can yet my love, entrance—
What care I then if rocks and trees can dance?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

If I have praised enough, why praise you more
That men should know how rare a flow’r you be;
That doing so might thus increase your store
When those with eyes alone can clearly see?
Is such proud praise for me or yet for you—
That in sweet words I do possess and show
My pow’r to captivate and there accrue
My own sweet praise whereon my own plot grows?
Be sure, my love, these words stand as a truth
Whose calculations are for you alone;
And though such vanity may mar loves’ worth,
A love unlauded seems a love unknown.
Still, radiant blossom worn on stiff lapel
Does grace the wearer more than words can tell.

© 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 that I held near,
And not some blissful angel chance displaced?
For what could reassure me of such truth?
Convince me that ’twere not but wishful dreams?
That ’twere not but some quaint yet cheerless ruse
That mind could perpetrate 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 succumbs to change;
In misbegotten youth lies future trust
While aged men oft watch in silent rage;
When grappling with the thought of where life’s 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 tomorrows’ righteous old,
And in so doing, conflicts rise anew;
Thus through the course of time this story wends,
To but begin again before it ends.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When autumns’ mysterious alchemy
Does gild with gold the hues of summer past;
Fond memories of you return to me,
And I recount the joining of our paths.
I do recall the softness of your eyes;
Cascades of rich and lustrous raven hair;
I close my eyes and you are by my side,
A trick I’ve learned; my loneliness to bear.
Truth, honesty and beauty all in one,
And countenance of porcelain so fine;
A fairer flower never saw the sun,
A rarer treasure never could I find.
What can a fool, in ink, attempt to do,
But pay tribute to an angel fair as you.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Youth’s thorned crown is that of wizened age,
Which righteous life or chance perhaps bestow.
Should golden youth aspire to wisest sage;
‘Cross Styx or pearly gate he still must go.
Yet what’s the gift when time hath stayed deaths hand?
Stooped back, gnarled cane perhaps a toothless grin?
Too oft men deem that such a state be grand,
Then take times test and end life much chagrined.
When years transform bright eyes to dullest pearl,
And frailty creeps into every bone;
Is this the prize of life our hope unfurls,
Before we meet sad 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 amidst twinkling stars,
And all that wretched day hath wronged set right,
Then float me to some distant tranquil shore-
Let darkness rob me of my memory,
Transpose instead kaleidoscopes of dreams
And take me to a land of fantasy,
Where I can rest on beds of soft moonbeams.
Gentle sleep, quench the thirst of weariness
And rock me in the cradle of thine arms,
Immerse me in the depths of peacefulness
And mock death’s shadow with thy potent charms.
Dearest sleep, thou art like the finest wine
Which when quaffed deeply, serves to soothe the mind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.