So close to life he lay, so close, still warm
His lids stretched wide, eyes bright as morning sun
Straw hair disheveled, begging for a comb;
Red mouth agape as if paused in a song…
Still he was dead, I knew—forever gone;
Dried blood upon his chest betrayed his fate,
Like a tattered nosegay rude red with scorn;
Crude crimson splotch that mocked all yesterdays.
What must I tell his mother—he was brave?
Not that I heard him whimper in the night,
What should she treasure of the life he gave?
Not that he cried for home with failing sight.
What shameful sins, those patriotic lies —
Sweet innocence that for false honor, dies.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Those precious tears that rise up from your eyes
Now let me know that I have been forgiven,
An hour ago my soul you did deride
Fair with the very heft of hell and heaven;
I am not worthy for I have deceived,
Ranged far from heart and home and all I loved,
Not sure of even yet what I believed—
A prisoner by lust and lies enslaved.
But I have broken free those bonds—set free;
Bashed through the sordid gates of living hell
So that once more your visage I might see
Before pronouncement by that surly bell.
My tears join yours, I touch that precious face
That selfish pride vile venery disgraced.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

So was her proof of virtue there not given—
There on that nuptial bed ‘neath eyes of God,
Her gaze upturned toward absolving heaven
Full knowing she did lay a scarlet fraud.
No honor there to stain white linen sheets
Save brine that fell for breach of piety,
Where guilt’s clenched fists the crumpled white did pleat,
While love was consecrated solemnly;
By act ordained, now she a licit wife
Deemed pure in heart in deference to sworn faith,
Yet husband true did note the tears of strife
His visage floating like a woe filled wraith.
But God stayed silent, she relaxed her grasp…
Praying there in hope, he’d never ask.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Gold and vermillion here bright colors run
Heralding retreat to duns and greys,
Marking sad surrendered summer’s sun
Whose low-slung flight now cast’s the land’s dispraise;
Leaves blush abashed, another bounty lost—
Mid-summers great green fortune lost in flame,
Pure verdant wonder that did fair hills gloss
Now pyrrhic plunder doomed to fallen shame!
Here still that final charge though brief was grand,
Though gilt and crimson splay upon the ground
As blood and treasure strewn on conquered land,
Stains sore the hearts of vanquished kings discrowned.
So kingdoms rise, so shall they meet their end;
The glory of new life shall life defend.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

My resting place shall ever be your heart
For there enshrined I’ll find no better home,
Ensconced within thy breast, ne’er apart,
Together one, wherever each shall roam.
When you look out across a prairie grand
Or ragged mountains purpled into grey,
Boreal forests vast in proud command
Or golden fields warm temperate winds do sway;
There you will see me, face to burning sun
My form soft melting into stands of trees;
Near lofty summit, victory surely won—
Or wandering foothills like some errant breeze.
Your quickened heart will tell you I am near…
And we together have but God to fear.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

A shadow crept up on the wall last night
Cast by a ghost moon’s wan and jaundiced glow,
A silhouette so dark it beckoned fright
Yet of a shape and form I seemed to know.
‘It’s been so long, why vex me now’, I said—
You answered not, but still the umbra smiled,
Stygian black, as mourning recent dead,
I rubbed my eyes that they not be beguiled;
‘What brings you now, all cloaked in ragged weeds,
Maleficent marauder of the moon,
Perhaps the mayhem of All Hallows’ Eve,
Has beckoned you from out some wicked tomb?
Ah but then, what a perfect night to call,
Where undead walk and evil may enthrall’.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Give me treats of Keats and bowls of Shelley
And Milton’s honey may my palate praise,
May bits of Byron fill my empty belly—
My quill pen true—it’s Worth in Words to phrase;
When feasted well on Poe drown thirst with Blake,
Mead drink to Shake with ice, or stir with Speare
Of mint, and quaffing so my soul to slake,
While musing yet on melodies of Moore.
May such a feast be blessed by wondrous Pope,
May Marlowe yet so toast this grand tableau
And somber Hardy lead us not to tope
That from gold tongues might tender verse yet flow.
There on sweet lyrics let me gorge my brain
And so surfeited there rhymed zeal sustain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She bled a living red, her tears were salt;
She felt the paper cut of poetry…
In images of love she found no fault,
And proudly wore pulsed crimson on her sleeve.
Serendipity brought her to my realm,
She’d read some lines somewhere, sometime before
Though not enough her soul to overwhelm,
Yet still sufficient to unlock love’s door.
This meeting more than chance, it were to seem,
For she sought solace in soft arms of verse
And in a moment, like some pleasant dream,
She did my doubts of love and time inverse.
So now in ink, here still ensconced in rhyme,
We live forever as a rune of time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Though you may doubt, I’ve always thought of you
For where I’ve roamed, your visage followed me,
Whether at sea or on yon mountains blue
Your smile a rainbow of felicity.
By evening fires I felt you by my side…
Eyes draped in restful sleep, I saw you there;
No place I’ve gone on this great world and wide
Did my lone soul not pine to have you near.
Sweet love seems both a blessing and a curse—
A feather light, yet still a heavy stone
To bolster us when we are at our worst,
Or bring us down when left to ache alone.
By heaven’s grace, these actions speak of love,
And if not so, what argument disproves?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.