Sonnet 200

She had a human voice and angel eyes,
The devil’s smile her cherub face besmeared;
Drawn eyebrows arched, perpetual surprise,
Skin dun, yet smooth, much like fine linen sheer.
She lived her life but for all pleasure sweet,
No thoughts of then, or yet of ever after;
Uncorseted her breasts were lust replete,
Her warm embrace fair promised joy and laughter;
I sojourned happy once amidst her charms
And burned all promise pure beneath her gaze;
Tasted life’s malt topped with her bouyant barms,
No tenets true her whimsy could not raze;
Yet when the candied clouds above were gone,
‘Twas not but salted earth I tread upon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Just Words

How do my words make you feel
When they run down your cheeks
Onto the page you read,
Or light up your eyes and turn
The corners of your mouth into a smile,
Tasting like hot cocoa on your tongue,
Passionate and bittersweet,
Or like a cup of jasmine that warms the heart?

How do my words make you feel,
When the nape of your neck tingles
As from bubbles in a bath
Enveloping your body and restoring your soul,
Melting the very core of your being?
Words that reverberate in your mind
Reassuring you with the sound of my voice
Telling you how beautiful you are,
And that as long as my words live,
You will never be alone.

How do my words make you feel
When they trigger sweet memories
And take you home, like the smell of slow cooked stew
On a stovetop, or cookies in the oven;
Spices in the cupboard,
The musty smells of attics crammed with ancient treasure;
Musical perfumes echoing in the drawing room,
Or scented candles burning
On a moonless night when only the stars
Are singing.

How do my words make you feel
When they wake you gently in the morning,
A distant familiar melody; a soft rain on the roof top;
Doves fluttering at the window;
Or lulling you off to sleep in a dream filled whisper
Knowing that I am next to you, that you are safe and warm,
And I remain, devoted, until death shall dim my voice;
But still these words survive
Giving you the strength to carry on without me.

How do my words make you feel
Uplifting hope like a butterfly in your heart;
My old flannel shirt warming your shoulders on a cold morning;
Words tinkling like the sound of coffee spoons
Or distant laughter in a park;
Children’s songs in play school,
Happy bells ringing with falling rice and ribbons;
Staccato words, like notes of a piano’s keys
Tapping down your spine.

How do my words make you feel
When in your heart you know they are the essence
Of my soul;
The earthly sum of all I had to give you
Wrapped up in love stained memories;
All of my promises here and beyond,
Bound up like posies given on our first date,
Held together by the pure pink bow of the first kiss;
The shy first clasp of hope filled hands,
Those soft mingling breaths sworn to be together,
Forever;
How do my words make you feel?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 199

Should history not be kind to words I write,
Though they be steeped in but your deepest praise,
Then I should feel that I have failed you quite,
That I lack wit, your argument to raise;
For if true beauty is but a gestalt,
The married sum of grace and heart and soul,
Brief forum such your virtues would exalt;
No need for flowered words to hearts cajole.
Yet write I must of your sweet measured sum,
Of your warm gaze which melts the sternest hearts,
Of smile, unbridled, which outshines the sun,
Where love and grace, a simple touch imparts;
Thus in these words of ink I here bequeath,
That once a beauty such did live and breathe.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Go With Grace Dear Mother

Go with grace dear mother,
Go with grace;
Your children all remember
That loving face.
Now is the time for slumber,
No need to rage and fight,
Go with grace dear mother,
Slip softly into night.

You gave your all dear mother,
Much more than some can say,
You showed us grace, you gave us space
And loved us every day;
But now the toil is over,
And through the world we roam,
Wherever your sweet heart is
Is where we shall call home.

Go with grace dear mother,
Go with grace;
Your children all remember
That warm embrace;
Now is the time for dreaming
About the life you lived,
And though our tears are steaming,
Embrace your cherished bliss.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 198

One hundred years from Yeats, and still I cry,
Reading old notes born out of memory,
A voice hewn sure, too strong to ever die,
A heart worn raw by endless wind and sea.
His view from crow’s nest or from mountain’s peak,
And far below calm seas or riotous land,
Or through clear eyes into the soul’s retreat,
The strength and weakness of a pen in hand.
From darkness mute, to speak with voice of light
There casting moving shadows on blank walls,
A show of angst or yet of pure delight;
A pantomime of life, to life extol.
Broad voice grown richer with the passing years,
To uplift hearts with joy, or drown in tears.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 197

I kissed her then as if it were the first,
Dry quivering lips too tense to tarry,
Heart in my throat, I kissed her as I durst,
Her shuttered eyes I watched with gaze so chary;
If truth be known, she was the first I’d kissed;
She sensed it so, ‘close your eyes’, she chided;
With heart fair set to burst its’ very breast,
I pressed her lips again, eyes closed, abided.
An old man passing by seemed fair amused,
‘Kiss her as if it were the very last’;
He said, ‘Destiny is not to be presumed’;
The warm smile on his wizened face quick passed…
He left me with a debt I’ve ever owed;
A kiss is not a kiss, but love bestowed.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Timeless Love

I hear a distant church bell toll,
On sullen cheeks fresh tears do roll;
Too young to pass, I oft ask why,
God granted leave to one still prime.

In passing winds I still can hear,
Her gentle voice both light and clear;
I see her face in stars above,
Her soul uprisen on wings of doves.

I feel her touch in zephyrs soft,
Her gentleness in clouds aloft,
And when her tears come down in rain,
I clasp her soul; I feel her pain;

But then a rainbow yon I see,
A smile to show she thinks of me,
As ever I do think of her;
In timeless love, two hearts endure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 196

You scorned because I could not be possessed,
For I was born beneath an endless sky,
And hailed sun rise in east, and set in west;
I wandered meadows like bold clouds on high.
At night beneath a swollen yellow moon,
Heard wolves compete in eerie lonesome calls,
Oft serenaded by some haunted loon
Or harkened quite to distant cattle wrawls;
But you were every inch a city lass,
Born with a clock in both your heart and soul,
Fair coddled by tall walls of clay and glass,
All measured worth defined by golden tolls.
I hope you find a heart true to your ends;
As mine roams free on brazen prairie winds.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 195

She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me;
What fortune lies within these petals dropped?
Why none, of course, save in the one still free,
Clinging to that stem that soon is tossed.
How true to life is yet this child’s game,
Where love too oft seems but the whim of chance,
But if I choose a simple flower to maim,
The numbered petals measure mused romance.
This puerile plot therein guides chosen fate,
For how I start determines the accord,
And in fond hope my love, I consecrate;
Success assured within this floret torn.
To place one’s destiny upon a bloom,
Is sure a folly that most hearts assume.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 194

Innocent love, far sweeter than a child’s,
Unconditional, free of vanity,
Heart pure, lithe body vestal, undefiled,
Blue eyes so clear, the soul lay bare to see.
She loved me true, of this I always knew,
And what she gave, she asked naught in return;
I took her love as any man might do,
Embraced the figure, yet the heart I spurned.
Time is both balm and bane, it often seems;
Somewhere along the path I lost my way,
Until I held her solely in my dreams,
‘Midst echos of her tender sobriquets.
In private moments when I breathe her name…
I wonder if she smiles or does the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.