That evening I sent you a jet black rose,
Though knowing well you always favored red;
Perhaps covert unkindness bade it so
For some things seem more keen when left unsaid.
I had it delivered up to his room,
My hired sleuth assured that you’d be there;
For reasons vague I watched out in the gloom,
Gray moon a smudge, my face a moveless stare.
Two silhouettes embraced, then lights went out;
My eyes burned deep into that blackened pane—
All life, all love, all hope I cared about
Seemed in an instant gone, fair promise slain.
A street, a fool, a rose, a broken heart;
A night, a moon, a pane…a shameless tart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Then by what measure do you weigh my art,

You, dear, whose essence lives in every line?
But even as you read this, judge me not
By style, by depth, by wit, or by my rhyme.
Though many sing proud praises, false or true,
Their gifts of gilded glamour you surround,
They do but flatter here to misconstrue
That sterling truth here in my song is found.
So I, though poor in purse, yet rich in ink
Strive just to etch my name on your heart sweet,
Presumptuous it be, perhaps, to think
That I, ‘gainst all admirers might compete;
Yet, if a heart was ever won by pen,
These words with all your suitors will contend.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sweet heaven! I beseech you, hear my vow,
That I would suffer death to right the wrongs
Which caused her head to hang in shameful bow,
Ere all my wretched sins I could amend.
Oh does it pain me that her heart should grieve,
Or that her mind should dwell on my deceit;
For what am I if she should choose to leave,
Naught but an empty vessel, drained complete.
Then hear my pleas and give me thus the strength
To beg forgiveness with so sure a tone,
That I may mount a broad and blessed defense,
Win back her love, and for black rot atone.
Divine benevolence, please grant this stay,
While I repair my heart and soul’s decay.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What noble honor does your beauty dress,
That loveliness which dazzles all men’s eyes?
Yet of your blessings, virtue tops the rest,
For smiles are oft but superficial guise.
Still few, if any, truly see your heart,
Ensconced behind the charms your mirror shows;
And though you see them, set them all apart,
As if they were imaginary clothes.
True elegance is that which lies within,
And is the essence of all human worth;
For those that prize prinked opalescent skin,
Their measure of true merit seems perverse.
While nature’s garment often dulls with wear,
True virtue’s vestment shines forever fair.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

You could not twist the vine to your liking,
That vine that climbed the wall beside your window;
Those mottled green leaves, ever so striking,
Bearing sparse blossoms of pale gaunt yellow.
How it clung to your glass always amazed you,
Yet, never allowed it to block out your sun,
You mangled its verdance so that it grew
At the edge of the pane, where it blocked none.
Time after time as you gazed on the world
A sprig or a spray seemed to pop in your way,
A green leafy flag so brazen, unfurled,
Not long to blemish—or darken your day…
Stands now a lone gravestone, weathered with time,
Grey faded etchings, now covered in vine.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

,girl silly, backwards is poem This
said daughter my to I
;again look just, not it’s no, Dad
!read it’s how on Depends

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I like to write by candle light,
When Luna’s ripe and round;
There visions dance before my sight,
And fancies fair abound.

When shadows wrap my shoulders bare,
And all the world’s asleep,
I see with view beyond compare,
Despite the shadows deep.

It is such pleasant irony,
Bright scenes here drawn from dark;
But when the sun sinks in the sea,
I see with vision stark.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Dim candle-light, scrap paper and my pen,
Engrossed in somber shadows of the past;
Soft flickering glow, blank darkness here to fend,
Until brave dawn can rescue me at last.
Your silhouette alive in changing shapes
Slips slowly behind curtains in the room,
I drop my pen—now frantic for escape,
But where to run within this umbrous tomb?
Why must you haunt me in the still of night;
What refuge left that is but mine alone;
Can thought or prayer expunge your visage quite;
For what transgression must I still atone?
Faint strains of dawn! Redemption in the east!
‘Til night returns, when shadows rise to feast.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Strange symmetry, drawn from revolution,
Nameless might, ever carving us to be
Towering sculptures of evolution,
Some, shaped of arid sand; some, icy sea;
Some, mountains grand, some, leafy jungle shrines,
Yet others, temperate fields and rolling hills,
Or rocky shores that marry earth and brine;
What force dictates the charters we fulfill?
Dull minions, raised from dust, to dust return,
Yet what sage pestle grates upon our form,
In what dim mortar do our hearts still yearn;
What plan does Mother Earth have for her spawn?
Born but to live—yet born as well to die;
Perhaps it’s wisest never to bid why.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When I fell to the earth,
No clouds did break my fall,
I landed on soft dirt,
And broke no bones at all.

A crowd soon gathered there,
Amazed that I survived,
A helpless child lay bare,
On that stark cold hillside.

But from whence had I come,
And who had dropped me here?
Angel or devil’s son,
Not of this earth was clear.

Yet as a child I cried,
And someone took me in;
As to my source, she lied
And raised me as her kin.

So way led onto way,
And I grew straight and strong;
She never once did say,
What I knew all along.

Yes play the part I did,
That of a human child;
To man I grew from kid,
And all I met, beguiled.

My powers I held in check,
And played the common tune,
So no one there would guess,
My mother was the moon.

But who was yet my sire?
Before this story’s done,
The heavens did conspire;
My father was the sun!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.