Sonnet 556

As morning sun shall rise, so shall it set
To mete again a sweet or bitter day
And so once surely gone, it rises yet
To mark of time in single candled ways.
So measured life in darkness and in light 
Plays out in puppet shadows on a wall
As if by some mischievous manus sleight
Designed to there amuse or yet to gall.
Forever from that sconce sweet hope is shone 
So life is bourn amidst quotidian dreams,
Penumbra shadows that do wax and wane;
A trite ombromanie upon a screen.
There still we dance beneath that rising sun
As shadows prance ‘til dark of night shall come.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 555

Where rests sweet love when we impassioned are
By petty piques that dearest hearts defame
As nimbus hulks block lights of shining stars
And conjures up a dank cold chilling rain;
Soon angry waves upraised by distant fetch
Do raze their rancor on the stone cragged shore
As if dumb rocks were but a hapless wretch,
By site alone to bear that fearsome scorn.
So where hides hope when darkness damns the sun
While gales lay siege to twist and tear the trees?
There salty spume white fingers rake the strand
To mark in flotsam, scars of vain debris—
There withered hope survives to yet cling on
The stoutest stones that love lies based upon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 554

I brought you true a bouquet of the sun
Fresh plucked from fields and ripe with heaven’s praise;
You placed them in a jar and hummed a song,
Arranging blooms beneath a happy gaze…
Then turned to me and beamed a radiant smile
That took me back to sun drenched meadows fine
Where from I’d walked that jaunty joyous mile
‘Midst orchid scents and sassy pink orpines.
I had no gifts to bring save but those flowers
But you received them as a treasure pure
And on your porch we sat and talked an hour,
Rapt poppycock and nuanced airs demure.
Of chances lost, this memory still out stands—
That I had not the strength to hold your hand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sophie

So she was fallen in the night,
By limbs now wizened there betrayed;
A tired heart bereft of might,
A body beaten, time decayed.
 
Did she perhaps call out my name
That I return the help she gave
For but to render there the same,
I might have eased her to the grave.
 
But I was many miles gone 
With arms too short to reach her hand,
The love and life that she did spawn
Now wandered in a foreign land.
 
Perhaps she knew I loved her more
Than sons have ever loved a grace 
And from my breast sweet passion tore
The wish that I had seen her face,
 
And told her in that fading light
That all she did was good and right.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 553

So do I love you now, as ever, more
And nay, it matters not if you love me
For unrequited yet I bear the scorn—
So indivisible this pledge to thee.
Here bid me leave and heavy I shall go,
Tell me stay, and loftily I rejoice;
To love’s command my future I bestow
So be that power in your darling voice.
Love’s grace is not contingent on a plan
Nor does it bide upon some sole decree,
It is a force ethereal and grand
That binds like souls in peerless harmony;
By word alone I here so live or die:
Love is to be, and never wonder why.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 552

What does it matter that we loved a day,
A week, a month, a year, a lifetime — more?
What matters most is not what time should say
For depth of passion ever bests that score.
Time more confounds but ever yet subtends 
The mortal measure of sweet ardor spanned
And so, despite the blights all love contends,
Exalts that honored hour she commands.
So be our time together short or long
And ever like the tides, love wax and wane;
Though notes of doubt may tremulate our song,
Within your grace I pray I shall remain.
Let time but stay as sequent seasons changed
And through it all our love remain the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 551

What loathe defeat by blackest infamy,
What loss of face, what coup to dearest pride!
What sour chagrin locked in that note to see
Sweet proffered troth in curdled ink denied.
My heart cleaved quite by simple words alone
And rended so upon a parchment rind;
A strike through flesh unto the very bone
Where never seemed a blow yet more unkind.
You do not love me, acid ink propounds—
That kneeled pledge within your drawing room
Shall ever truth and beauty’s hope confound:
All meted life from here a living tomb.
Was I not worth a meeting face to face…
What gives you might to so proud love disgrace?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 550

When I first touched your hand I cannot tell
For in the mists it lingers with your smile
To resonate much like a soft rung bell
That gently fades into the distant while;
And when of time we shared the primal kiss,
Of many since, it seems a drop of rain
That watered so broad fields of endless bliss
Or gilds but yet the vast and plumbless main.
So bless sweet time that blurs when it began
There clouding memories of love’s prime embrace,
So seems the blush of fervor on the pan
That once ignited, ever souls engrace.
It matters not when love first claimed the heart;
It matters most that we shall never part.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 549

Now summer’s velvet, haughty, hot replete
Of burning incense borne by August blooms
And sauna skies to baste in hothouse heat
A listless earth bewitched by Maenad tunes.
Cicada screams now undulate the air
As grackles stalk the misty seas of green,
Dark starlings march, black lines of bleak despair
To seek, destroy, dismantle and demean.
That regal eye now burns into the souls,
Dense hapless few still prostrate on the ground
With mien beheld by brave or abject fools
Who yet defy reprieve in shadows found.
By shade of umbrage, so bemused I squint,
Bemoan my state and raise a julep mint.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 548

With summer’s heat now simmering wilting trees
And not a zephyr’s kiss to daub my brow,
I longed for cloud or best, a gentle breeze
To cool my face and soothe it’s florid glow.
White cotton twill fair melting on my skin
Now sopped in sweat, damp hanging in despair;
Rank smell of roses burning in the sun
And lilac pyres’ incense on the air.
A wing aloft, poor Icarus aflame
Circling slowly searching for some shade,
Perhaps a vulture skirring for the lame
To mark in pirouettes, a looming grave.
So sat I sullen, winter on my mind…
And were I there, soft praying warmth to find.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.