Stained leaves lie shorn by cruel autumn winds,
The pride of summer razed upon the ground—
Stark proof that Time gives quarter to no things;
On all terrestrial acts, his stroke is found;
So creeps the rust along the soldier’s sword,
So marks tall castles rubbled to decay,
So marks strewn books that praise the Holy word —
What monument of worth can Time not slay?
Yet life renews where stone is ground to sand
And in the spring, new buds will light dead trees
And blood through younger blood ‘gainst blade shall stand,
So human hope prevails through Deity.
Though Time still presses on his murderous reign,
Despite this siege, there life shall rise again.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

That time ago when I first chanced  to gaze
Upon that smile that shines upon me still,
Fair looks alone that set my heart ablaze—
Love’s searing essence tempering my will.
With lustrous light you thrilled me from afar,
My soul inflamed, eyes wide with lips struck dumb
As one who first beholds a new found star
Or ancient awed ‘neath full eclipse of sun.
Surrendered so to love’s astronomy,
Enamored by that grand celestial show,
Uncertain still of sight’s veracity,
Content to bask in heaven’s holy glow.
Each night I turn my eyes to skies above
To thank my favored stars for your dear love.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

In quiet moments when it seems God sleeps
I pray to Him half knowing He can’t hear
Soft murmured pleas that earnestly beseech,
Or fervent thanks for His abiding care;
Here echoes do return as joy or pain
So meted in long minutes or brief days—
Those random bursts of sunshine or of rain
That leads me to the hope that Heaven sways
Some blessed direction to my lonesome path
That is yet lit by blessed celestial light,
That mine is not a road beset by wrath,
Its shadowed valleys marked by endless blight;
But if it comes to be I walk alone—
Hope and serendipity were my song.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I never did say you were like a rose,
Though thought, perhaps, invoked a fragrant flower,
Posies impress with beauty, I suppose,
Where common blooms might seem a little dour;
The queen of flowers, an apt analogy
To capture how I felt and what I thought,
Quite knowing you might think it flattery—
That in some way your charms were being bought .
Of course that isn’t true—not true at all,
Yet hope did style in words, a small bouquet
Of heartfelt verse arranged to so enthrall
You with my love, having trifles but to say;
I bound these lines together with a string
Of simple truth to mark the joy you bring!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

In silent thought I muse upon Midori,
Her nectar sweet to soothe my somber soul;
I gaze across an endless cyan ocean
Whose depths still guard life’s mysteries of old;
Tender as first light on verdant meadow,
Gentler than a zephyr waking leaves,
Softer than gold rays on forest mountains,
Lusher than proud promise bound in sheaves;
Her name proclaims the best of spring-time maidens,
So blessing here the world with Eden’s light?
What do we call an angel reft from Aidenn
Set here upon earth’s gardens of delight?
Her grace alone can mend sweet shattered dreams,
For she alone transforms all blue to green.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I only write for you—perhaps you know,
Late evening hours dreamt with pen in hand;
Yet not so much that favored love may grow,
For from first sight, it ever has stood grand;
I am content to dote on you alone—
In quiet moments when love softly sleeps,
And moonlight’s pearl penumbras there are strown
Across my desk—spilled velvet ink that seeps
Onto my page as into every soul
That reads some heartfelt line and feels a stir
Of poignant passion yet beyond control,
Replete with all life’s raging hopes and fears.
Awash in soft moon-shadows, here I think …
Without your love, what nothingness this ink.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What is this lust for clothes that we so dress
Much like a peacock in his stately flame,
Ablaze with frills and colors that profess
Our worth to others that know not our name?
‘The garment makes the man’ it has been said,
Yet sure it seems, it makes the woman too;
As actress on a stage, she holds in stead
A glittered wardrobe that pressed wealth accrues.
Few men can match their mate in habiliment
Though not themselves immune to suave attire,
And of their mate’s bright plumage they may taunt—
That dowdy hen unto proud cock aspires;
It is a show the wisest may condemn—
Pageantry, where nakedness is the end.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Soon poetry shall reign in common thought
As yet more youth acquires the technic pox
That truncates brains’ long cogitates of flight
Into autistic fragments of delight.

The novel is but now a bridge too far
As boring as a trip to distant star
No commercial pause on that great trek
Or shimmering instant flash that is high tech.

No thought or effort more than minutes long
Impatient minds await that well timed gong
That stops engaging stories in mid flow
To show us things to buy or things to know.

The burgeoning brain delights and is ‘all ears’
For all worthwhile reality bides here
No earthly wonder ever bright as this
For gods now speak in techno-glimmered bliss.

Thus so the pruning of the brain goes on
Thereby proof editing dendritic prongs
Until the box transforms the brain within
And some new versions of Hans hymn he sings.

Here poetry fits well in new found spans
Oft short and sweet but in a moment grand
But yet well crafted so to entertain
The sculpted reaches of a well trimmed brain.

What mighty wonders have we cyber wrought
His mother put him right here in that spot
That she may now enjoy some time that’s free
And he learn of the world in mock 3D.

No need to sit and read a story book
Just push a button and then let him look
How very peaceful when neurons decay
And much less strain than going out to play.

Synaptic pruning having run its course
Little Johnny appears but none the worse
Yet in his mind grows strange realities
That must be true, he saw it on TV.

Thus living now in some fictitious world
Not certain if he is a boy or girl
All reasoning reduced to zero or one,
Should he log on or simply buy a gun?

The world once round squeezed now into a square
And all life’s stresses seem to be out there,
Why does he simply stare at screens all day?
He needs a pill to make this go away.

But Johnny’s brain now hacked to 1 and O
Has simply no more branches left to grow,
The world o’erwhelms and gentle love forsakes
Perhaps he’ll harken at commercial breaks.

So in this land of babbage, gates and jobs
And other newly minted cyber gods
Promise endless knowledge, minds forsook —
The world was round when Gutenberg sold books.

But here’s my point before my song is sung
Just read a poem and in a minute… done!
And let the mind form pictures it may hone
Instead of visions some one else may own.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Half way to Wordsworth, I took a silent pause,
Leaned on my pen, embracing brief respite…
To scour my weaker words and all their flaws
And too, the very reasons I should write.
To drown such musings in despairing ink,
To read and dream, my thoughts with his compare —
Beneath that mighty shadow, what to think,
That lowly scribe might breathe of Heaven’s air?
Grasping at salvation, I dwelt on you,
Sure peerless worth that many lines did grace,
That on your sweetness I did so accrue,
A ledger proud, to meet him face to face;
Without your love, what would my words be worth,
My inkwell dry, my song an empty verse.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, now I know that you have been untrue
And silver tears fall fast upon this bed
As you atone for sin in heartfelt rue,
While sordid shadows swirl inside my head;
Where do we go, where do we go from here?
What angel or what whore do I now hold?
From this point on, deceit a constant fear,
And every truth mere stories that I’m told.
I say my piece to calm two wounded hearts;
Grim rancor shall not be my standard now.
This strain forced sadness does not here comport
With all the tallies I have come to know;
I wipe your face and kiss you then goodnight—
In aching silence plan tomorrow’s flight.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.