Sonnet 306

Here now I do proclaim these words of love
Well knowing love cannot condense to words,
Yet these seem all I send to God above
In empty prayer, beseeching thoughts be heard.
What must I do to win that gentle hand?
What might I say to strike a cherished chord?
What act proposed will she yet view as grand?
Please let me know, I beg of you dear Lord!
If silent lines may still reach out to hearts,
If kindest acts may still bask in sweet praise,
Then with each loving breath I’ll plead my art
And to that precious soul sweet verse engrave.
So if these lines of ink read meek or bold,
I pray fond words may win that heart of gold.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 305

I met an old man leaving church one day
And he arrested me with but a smile,
His face quite raisined, and his eyes were grey,
His wizzed body leaned against a stile.
You do not know me, but I know you, he said
In soft and gentle voice I seemed to know;
A sense of burden in his face I read
And he continued in a whisper low.
In the graveyard stands a blank face stone
Ahead a mound, but no words written there,
I placed it so for you when you were born
And have maintained it with the greatest care.
Are you the reaper? I blurted out in fear!
A messenger— your epithaph’s unclear.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.


Sonnet 304

I should compare you to a winter’s night
Incorrigible, callous, cold and mean;
What beating heart deserves that trenchant bite
Of Stygian solstice you fair rule as queen?
Hyperborean face of driven snow,
Those crystal sparkling glacial eyes of blue
Whose needled icicles your smile does throw
To pierce the souls of all that they subdue;
But even frosty depths are warmed by hope
Which makes collation such here so unfair,
As morning sun revives the heliotrope
So may the hapless rise from numb despair;
And may these words of warning boldly stand,
That no man ever clasp that frigid hand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 303

Then by what measure is dread Time unjust,
When king and beggar seeming have their reign,
Though one bright robes and one drab rags encrust,
Each heart beats out its rhythm just the same.
Oft to the beggar, a simple meal’s rejoiced
Where to the king each feast is but akin,
For seldom pleasure’s oft the more enjoyed
Then daily excess, much to high chagrin.
Then of contentment less is often more
Where too much more results in being less;
When luxury has not been seen before
Its taste will leave the taster more the blessed.
In matching measure, each eke out their days,
And more or less, exult in different ways.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

First Snow in Town

Powdered snow soft wafting down
Sprinkling light the sponge cake ground
Sugar coating chocolate trees
Etching silver panes in frieze.

Children on the hills now play
Sliding down in laughter gay
Stopping brief in fun to fight
Lobbing dollops soft and white.

Whipped cream sky melts into dark
Popcorn flakes fill up the park
Windows now sport candles warm
Glazing gold the streets of town.

Travelers whisk past on their routes
Shuffling furrows in winter boots
Caramelized by household fires
Feasted full soon to retire.

Gingered houses candied lanes
Crumb coat dashed by winter winds
Doors and sills in garland cream
Lollipop street lanterns gleam.

Marzipan on chimneys tall
Vanilla frosting covers all
Hamlet piped in gum paste sweet
Wrapped in fondant now to sleep.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 302

I opened up a folded hand writ note,
In gentle ink it simply so did say
‘You do not know me but I like you quite,
So much that I would love to meet one day.
I shall be at the pub called Riverside
On the morrow, I’ll be there at noon,
My auburn hair and saffron dress your guide
To find me, if by chance a crowded room.’
I wracked my brain, no visage came to mind,
No red haired damsel that I could recall;
What harm to pay a visit there in kind
To find what held this woman so in thrall?
In wary hope I left the zenith sun
And sat ‘til certain that she would not come.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 301

I write to you sight blurred by stinging tears,
This crushing sadness strained upon my breast;
All shining hope now lost amidst dark fears,
An agony no pain of death could best.
What cause to go? Why do you leave me now?
The depths of winter drawing yet so nigh,
Grey smoke curdling above slate housetops bow
In deference to a god forsaken sky.
I read your note but do not understand,
How you could not adjudge me face to face,
This venom in black ink burns like a brand
To scar both heart and soul in cruel disgrace.
A prisoner chained now sentenced here to death,
No crime alleged, condemned so nonetheless.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 300

Let not the arms of mother’s love despair
For love bestowed does not presume a way
And laboring so in sweet eternal care,
She does with means and ways fond hope convey;
The wisest son does make his father proud,
The fool oft to his mother’s breast does cling,
Yet fosters both may don the mourner’s shroud
When sorrow to glad heart’s flawed breed does bring.
Still of this failure who should bear the scorn,
Of baird whose actions stain their pedigree
There oft the mother’s heart does heft the more
And mocks her worth and work so woefully;
The warmest sun and too the sweetest rain
Falls soft upon the flower and weed the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.


Sonnet 299

Power to soar above on eagle wings,
Power to smite with heaven’s thunder roar,
Power to lead with all that beauty brings,
Power to open yet each sturdy door;
Power to live and shine with brightest light,
Power to give and yet humbly receive,
Power to endure each battle’s cruelest fight,
Power to speak the truth and not deceive.
My children dear, may God grant you these gifts
That you stand proud when voice to mighty calls
And serving passion, never stray amiss
Succumbing so to lusts the weak befall;
May conscious courage guide your every day
That you may show the world a better way.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 298

Precious flower borne of Florentine winds
One day did wash upon that chalky shore
And there found fertile ground to so begin
A ripened form to best all forms before;
In Albion clay this changeling did take root
To spread amongst lush gardens of the land,
A bloom whose iridescence could compete
With any floret blessed by mortal hand;
Sweet nurtured thus it grew in praised delight
To freshen quite each cultured drawing room,
In scented worth each fancy there took flight
And every heart assailed did faint and swoon;
This beauty bright once every lea adorned
Now rare in sight, fair essence but forsworn.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.