Sonnet 520

We are all different and yet still the same
Here from that common mold of human kind;
Clear differences a boon and yet a bane
That can both link us and still cleave in time.
We shadow dark the strange of mortal thought
While from the strange new innovation springs,
Group thinking oft to ride the orthodox
While relishing the gifts invention brings.
We criticize the things we cannot grasp,
Disparaging van dreams not understood
Yet when impossible from whims amass,
We swiftly praise the strains of common good.
So quick to measure by some pious score;
All men the same, but clearly, some the more.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 519

So may I praise what fortune has begot,
Indeed all blessings that befall me here;
Yet still I mourn of prizes that I sought
Which did evade my grasp; Oh things so dear!
It is but nature to assail the more
Well knowing that indulgence is a sword,
Two sided thus, it may the self yet score
Where even prayers might seem but cursed words.
For what to gain by gorging to excess,
Or loving greater than the heart can serve,
Or wielding wealth to flaunt in proud largesse,
Professing fame far lofty than deserved?
The greater good lies in the lesser treasure,
And heaven’s sun more bright in meted measure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 518

I write this now amidst the sting of tears
Peine forte et dure now heavy on my breast;
Scant hope remains within these growing fears—
An agony no pain of death could best.
Yes, you have made the choice to leave me now,
Here with the pit of winter drawing nigh;
The slinking smoke from chimneys quats and bows
In deference to a godforsaken sky.
For what remains when Heaven’s light is gone,
When strickened prayers beseech stern ears of stone?
The tarot ten of swords now seeming drawn
And I prostrate upon misfortune thrown.
A prisoner chained and sentenced here to death;
Yet still your servant to my final breath.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 517

Winter’s wrath returns with coldness found
To puff the feathers of dear birds not flown,
His pallid cloak enshrouds the silent ground
On which, near past, were sweetest flowers grown.
The sun now weak, his feeble eye looks on
Broad barren fields once burgeoned with ripe grain,
That golden bounty rich, now fairly gone
Surrendered to that bleak and embattled plain.
Though girded gold and green must surely pass,
So marking thus in seasoned ordered time
That nothing good or bad shall ever last—
No blessing bright, more yet no callous crime:
As ice shall melt when vernal voices sing,
So from dark dirges hope shall ever spring.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 516

About a manger neath auspicious light
That silver’d o’er a scene of prophecy,
A darkened stable bathed and gilded bright
Bore promise of that which they’d come to see.
The Magi kneeling, ushered by a star,
Or yet perhaps an occultation seen —
So bearing gifts dream fostered from afar
To spread about the newborn savior’s feet.
On Golden hay lay Frankincense and Myrrh,
A preordained nativity vivant;
Dialectic proof of virgin birth,
For no believer ever to recant;
Soft with their silence spoke both ox and ass,
‘The barn is warm and yes, this too shall pass.’

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 515

The lion roared from out his darkened lair
And so the ground beneath me quaked and shook;
My chest reverberating amidst the blare
Resounding forth from out that thorn lined nook.
I saw the jaundice eyes and grimaced mask
The ivory fangs that dripped with dreadful fear,
With every sinew taut as if to ask
If hell would soon unleash upon me there.
My aging double raised in sole defense,
Stark pupils wide, throat dry, all time recessed,
Adrenaline now stoking every sense;
No time to pray or mortal sins confess.
Explode he did from out that fearsome cave,
The rifle bucked with but one soul to save.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 514

No pleasure stirs but what our senses bless,
No thoughts to rise but what our brains conceive;
All tears that fall are at the heart’s behest,
All truth fair told must to the soul concede.
It matters not how we shall bide our days,
With only time to spend what is our lot?
The human form exalts in simple praise,
And cherished bests are things that can’t be bought.
Yet selfish hearts can only strive for more
Not knowing less is more and more is less,
And for their mortal trimmings, Gods implore
That they reach heaven’s gates the better dressed.
Naked came I and naked I return,
Content but here to live and love and learn.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 513

My life seems now as ever lived for you;
To grow and die within your gentle reign,
You are my axis and my vessel true
That guides me yet through every joy and pain.
My purposed being lives but for your praise;
In this wide world you are my golden sun
Where I’m content to measure out my days…
For when you sail I know my berth is done.
I have no fear for I have felt your grace
And you have given all my life its’ form,
In silent moments when I scan your  face,
There in that reading, hope and joy rejoin;
No pleasured state could yet such rapture give,
For you are life, and in your realm I live.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 512

For only love shall stand the test of time—
When roses in the lips and cheeks shall die
And sallowness shall then gaunt face embalm,
As wanes the glint that once shone from your eye.
Those golden summer curls will wear fresh snow,
Ice crystals too corrupting jointed bones;
Straight back will bend as burdened by life’s woe
And simple movements mock youth with sad groans.
Still love survives such dread indignities
And warms the heart that winter has made cold,
There summer smiles wax bright with memories
To revel in the light of stories old.
Yes, hand in hand we shall face winter’s rage;
Sweet love the balm all hardship to assuage.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.