Sonnet 163

From heaven’s palette beauty’s brush bestowed
In tints and tones and lights and darks most fair,
The finest blush of hues that nature knows
Whose colors true no earthly sylph could bear.
A masterpiece of many favored strokes,
Pastels of pink and lavender and blue,
A symphony of sight that can evoke
Surrender in stout hearts with but a view.
So was I smitten when your gaze met mine,
My proud stern singledom there razed to ruin;
A soul transformed, suspended there in time,
A knight now sworn to fealty anew.
Beauty most rare, now suddenly my queen;
Brought to my knees by sight, and force unseen.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 162

As I am now, so too you yet shall be;
Child of life and vigor that knows no bounds;
Time is mendacious and all eyes shall see,
That time but lends the beauty it endows.
So make the most of your brief given span
Before black covetous time recalls his loan;
And wring from life all sweetness that you can-
The grave should be the place where we atone;
And look upon each morning as a gift,
Where it be bright or darkened there with gloom
Each breath, the air that gives your wings fair lift
And on these wings, the great wide world to roam;
And when returned to search these aging eyes,
Look for those truths that jealous time has tried.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 161

There is no greater truth of he and she
That nature has enshrined in sands of time,
No greater fact that stands for you and me
And holds us in the unseen ties that bind;
Thus we may find sound proof within the trees,
In all life’s force blessed by dear Nature’s hand;
In actions of earth’s beasts and birds and bees,
And forms now mortared in hard stones of sand;
Though human lust may clothe a naked truth
And darkened hearts subvert life’s pristine light,
No twisted rantings here could ever move
That edict that four billion years made right-
But nature does not judge by right or wrong,
As witnessed by past tales etched in stern stone.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 160

What beauty have we salvaged from the cross
Whose warm red blood did wash the sins of man?
Or did the suffering simply fate emboss
With images to haunt us for time’s span?
Do eyes of heaven watch the savage beast?
Does golden gaze instill civility?
Do promises of paradise decrease
The specter of man’s inhumanity?
When evanescent scriptural smoke is gone,
That scarecrow, soon all doubting eyes will see,
As but crossed staves that flimsy robes lay on,
Not truth but lies there practiced to deceive.
Thus, of these thoughts, and two millennia in,
The scarecrows’ clothes grow ragged in the wind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 159

Dark tree tops tousled by an angry wind,
The seething sky a drab and doomful grey;
And in the distance, marching thunders’ din,
With piercing raindrops leading up the fray.
A cannon flash does crack the waxing gloom,
Soon followed by the sounds of distant drums;
The line approaching like some fierce dragoons,
Imposing specters of the strife to come;
But you now gone, I welcome frenzied might;
If but some fearsome god would strike me down,
Or yet some dragoons dagger of pure light
Would run me through and all my pain be gone;
And love bereft, I meet my Waterloo,
With my last breath still singing songs of you.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 158

Then cloud me not with rumor or romance
When I gaze in your deep and savage eyes,
Yet can I here distil with but a glance
That eager truth that beauty’s smile belies.
Am I a sailor sworn to sirens songs,
Marked by black fate to be a ruin of time,
Content to love embrace ‘til hope be gone,
And rocky shores my sun bleached bones enshrine?
Why must I importune my love is true;
Why must I bleed that you know blood is red?
Do not salt tears and kisses sweet construe
My purpose here, that you have naught to dread?
Oh that these tear stained eyes could see your soul,
And your dark eyes, in turn, my truth behold.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 157

To write for masses or the rarest few;
To penetrate, or keep it floral light?
Full limned, the flowers’ pistil can’t imbue
The pleasure brought by blossoms at first sight.
Yet like the humble bee we are deceived,
Though his deceit for higher purpose sure;
And his reward not perfume but sweet need,
That nourishes his forms with nectar pure;
But in our readings we such worth do find,
That sweet ambrosia that sustains the soul,
Yet deep or superficial, to one kind,
Each finds its food for thought, such is the goal.
Still of this plight, my thoughts are often these;
To pollinate for purpose, or just to please?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 156

My needs are simple, and my wishes few;
Content within my earthly acred plot,
Green burgeoned fields to daily here purview –
Graineries full with all the life I sought.
Happiest yet to greet the morning sun
Or sing a song unto the rising moon;
Sweet joy to rest, when daily toil is done,
And then to sleep in peace with dreams festooned.
Dear mother earth, you gave to me your best
And I lived sure, fair coddled in your arms,
For tears of joy and sorrow watered but
The golden flowers of tomorrow’s loam.
To live, to give, to grow and then to die
I thank you nought, but with a heartfelt sign.

 

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Farm Hijinks

I tossed a chicken from the wall
And watched her flap to break her fall;
She landed and looked up to say
Now child, go somewhere else to play.
I took another to the top
And like a stone I let her drop;
Bright crimson comb, a blur of white,
And like the other, landed quite.
I threw a third as if to prove
They could not fly quite like a dove;
In cackled curt cacophony,
She landed proud for all to see.
A pantomime of feathered mirth,
Yet to a child some thoughts of worth;
Better weak wings to break one’s fall,
Than flapping arms from off the wall.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 155

Sylvia, sweet and light of heart was she,
A flower garden grew within her breast;
On her dear head, spice scented ebony,
Soft silken skin was alabaster dressed;
Dark eyes enchanted with angelic light,
Rose lips did burn with savored honey sweet;
Touches tender that tingled with delight;
Pureness with which god’s chosen souls compete.
By heaven’s grace she wandered to my arms,
And oft in moonlight I did watch her sleep,
My soul immersed in her ethereal charms,
And I entranced by love I could not keep.
Sweet memory is a prison of a kind,
As love that’s lost may haunt us for all time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.