Sweet robin red breast, harbinger of spring,
Raise up your voice and to the heavens call,
That your dear mate may hear the love you sing,
And music such, stark dormant earth enthrall.
Your voice awakes the slumb’ring sprigs of May,
Imbuing blush green envy to buff hills,
As if each note your precious throat may say
Adds dabs of color to drab winter’s twill.
So is it now as yet of times gone by—
A joyous lover paints the world in song,
As if his brush of love could gloss the sky,
And his blithe trill could right each earthly wrong.
Sweet robin sing, and here your heart outpour!
That every brumal heart might spring adore.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

In truth, you would beseech me endlessly,
Your guilt a heavy stone upon my breast.
A child of love you wished to thus conceive,
A secret trust that no one ever guess.
No obligation—none—you staunch did swear;
No ties, no tasks, no burdens to confound;
Just you, your child, and hope to here forbear,
And I a memory lost, my life unbound.
No simple matter to unyoke a heart,

Yet there to leave a shackled soul to roam;
Though I, in pleasured moment play my part,
And so condemn my conscience to a tomb.
A life so precious must spring forth from love—
Or I stand dastard damned with naught to prove.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

A woman’s geography’s
Considered pornography
So everywhere that she goes.

She’s constrained unto modesty
So many times all that we see
Is face, fingers, hands, arms and toes.

A blatant indignity
At least at the beach where might be-
A veritable lacking of robes.

There strident ‘don’t look at me’
Undresses hypocrisy-
As all parts once hidden now show.

This seems pure inequity
Or at least rank false piety…
For empresses sometimes sport clothes.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I remember us speaking when you returned,
Yet we spoke not of your most rank deceit,
Preferring platitudes, as if we’d learned
That biting rancour thrives on harsh critique.
Deft words did probe my heart as if to find
Perhaps some ember left in ashes grey—
A little spark or glow love left behind,
That breath might stir to flame, and light the way.
Puffery was wasted, the hearth stayed cold—
Stone cold, without a glim of hope afore;
And where once smarm could rattle dying coals
Into a raging pyre, now here no more.
This love, black cinders where no Phoenix lives:
Five hundred years or more could not forgive.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

These pleasures of the flesh, my soul decry,
Yet powerless I am to thwart their throes;
And of us two, which one by strength decides
To embrace honor and make lust our foe?
All wrongs seem right when you are in my arms;
What vows of truth should we not then amend?
Our passion brief—wherein would lie the harm
If come the morrow, we to truth commend?
My hunger for your body wracks my soul;
Your lips inflame me with a madness sweet;
Your warm caresses all my heart cajoles—
All mortal reason vanquished in defeat.
No gods or demons could this fervor quell,
As we transgress the fiery gates of hell.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

For I have roamed into the naked woods
Leaving stark city lights and sounds behind,
In reverent silence Nature by me stood
And gently there did take me by the hand.
I walked with her in green cathedrals great,
Then soon along sun dappled crystal springs,
Heard rocks and twigs and leaves beneath me speak,
And denizens from hallowed grottos sing.
Though urban-sullied, she no malice bore
To this marauder from a caustic age;
With verdant kindness yet she did implore,
That I seek truth, and righteous deeds engage.
From Eden blessed to shrinking sanctum shrines,
May God forgive the nescience of mankind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The rising sun spills gold upon my page,
Gilding the hand and pen of which does write
These words of love replete with passion’s rage,
As your celestial vision sears my sight;
Yes, blind I am with love, yet not so blind,
As not to see this fleeting, golden time,
For if we couple not, what stays behind,
What princes then remain to reign sublime?
Then come, my sweet, and drink from love’s fine cup,
Embrace my form that we two meld as one,
Proclaim our promise to the gods above,
And in short measure, here our ardor burn;
Before tomorrow’s sun shall climb on high,
So consummate mid shudder and sweet sigh!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

With passing time, as beauty’s sun shall set,
No longer shining on admiring eyes;
When voices in their dying praise forget,
How will your beauty’s precious worth survive?
Though paintings, portraits and cool marble hold
Reflections of what outward worth once was,
They are but matte, where paltry truth is told,
And show oft less than could a hand-held glass.
May words here writ forever set the tone,
Affirming that a paragon once breathed
Whose timeless beauty never yet was shown
In man-made image or in bold decree.
So say I more, or say I more in less;
No woman lived that beauty more did bless.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.