She had a human voice and angel eyes,
The devil’s smile her cherub face besmeared;
Drawn eyebrows arched—perpetual surprise,
Her skin was dun, yet smooth as linen sheer.
She lived her life but for all pleasure sweet,
No thoughts of then, or yet of ever after;
Uncorseted—her breasts were lust replete,
Her warm embrace fair promised joy and laughter;
I dwelled in bliss amidst her fleeting charms
And burned all promise pure beneath her gaze;
Lay rapture wracked within her silken arms,
No tenet true her whim could fail to raze;
Yet when the candied clouds above were gone,
‘Twas not but salted earth I laid upon.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

How do my words make you feel
When they run down your cheeks
Onto the page you read,
Or light up your eyes and turn
The corners of your mouth into a smile,
Tasting like hot cocoa on your tongue,
Passionate and bittersweet,
Or like a cup of jasmine that warms the heart?

How do my words make you feel,
When the nape of your neck tingles
As from bubbles in a bath
Enveloping your body and restoring your soul,
Melting the chocolate core of your being?
Words that reverberate in your mind
Reassuring you with the sound of my voice
Telling you how beautiful you are,
And that as long as my words live,
You will never be alone.

How do my words make you feel
When they trigger sweet memories
And take you home, like the smell of slow cooked stew
On a stovetop, or cookies in the oven;
Spices in the cupboard,
The musty smells of attics crammed with ancient treasure;
Musical perfumes echoing in the drawing room,
Or scented candles burning
On a moonless night when only sovereign stars
Are dancing.

How do my words make you feel
When they wake you gently in the morning,
A distant familiar melody; a soft rain on the roof top;
Doves fluttering at the window;
Owls lulling you off to sleep in a dream filled whisper
Knowing that I am next to you, that you are safe and warm,
And I remain, devoted, until death shall dim my voice;
Where still these words survive
Giving you the strength to carry on without me.

How do my words make you feel
Uplifting hope like a butterfly in your heart;
My old flannel shirt warming your shoulders on a cold morning;
Words tinkling like the sound of next room coffee spoons
Or distant laughter in a park;
Children’s songs in open windowed play schools,
Happy bells ringing and showers of falling rice and ribbons;
Staccato words, like notes of a piano’s keys
Tapping gently down your spine.

How do my words make you feel
When in your heart you know they are the essence
Of my soul;
The earthly sum of all I had to give you
Wrapped up in love stained memories;
All of my promises here and beyond,
Bound up like the half wilted posies given on our first date,
Held together by the pure pink bow of that first kiss;
The electrifying clasp of hope filled hands set to explore,
Those soft mingling breaths sworn to be together,
Forever;
How do my words make you feel?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Should history not be kind to words I write,
Though they be steeped in but your deepest praise,
Then I should feel I’ve failed you in this rite;
That I lack wit, your argument to raise;
But if true beauty is a blest gestalt—
The married grace of spirit, mind and soul,
What need for flowered speech or gilded fault,
Or witty verse to doubting hearts cajole?
Yet write I must of your sweet measured sum,
Of your warm gaze which melts the sternest hearts,
Of smile, unbridled, which outshines the sun,
Where love and bliss, a simple touch imparts;
Thus in these words of ink I here bequeath,
That once such beauty lived…and loved…and breathed.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Go with grace dear mother,
Go with grace;
Your children all remember
That loving face.
Now is the time for slumber,
No need to strive and fight,
Go with grace dear mother,
Slip softly into night.

You gave your all sweet mother,
Much more than some can say,
You showed us grace, you gave us space
And loved us every day;
But now the toil is over,
And through the world we roam,
Wherever your glad heart is
Is where we shall call home.

Go with grace dear mother,
Go with grace;
Your children all remember
That warm embrace;
Now is the time for dreaming
About the life you lived,
And though our tears are streaming,
We wish you heavens’ bliss.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

One hundred years from Yeats, and still I cry,
Reading old notes drawn deep from memory,
A voice hewn sure, too strong to ever die,
A heart worn raw by endless wind and sea.
His view from crow’s nest or from mountain’s peak,
And far below calm seas or riotous land,
Clear eyes that gazed upon the soul’s retreat,
So chronicled in verse by pen in hand.
From darkness mute, to speak with voice of light
There casting moving shadows on blank walls,
A show of angst or scenes of pure delight;
That life in light or shadow may extol.
Broad voice grown richer with the passing years,
To lift up hearts with joy, or drown in tears.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I kissed her then as if it were the first—
Dry, quivering lips too tense to tarry;
Heart in my throat, I kissed her as I durst,
Her shuttered eyes I watched with gaze so wary;
By truth alone, she was the first I’d kissed—
She sensed it so, “close your eyes”, she chided;
With heart fair set to burst within my breast,
I pressed her lips again—eyes closed, abided.
An old man passing by seemed fair amused,
“Kiss her as if it were the very last”,
He said, “Destiny is not to be presumed”;
The warm smile on his wizened face quick passed.
He left me with a debt I’ve ever owed:
A kiss is no mere kiss where love’s bestowed.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I hear a distant church bell toll,
On sullen cheeks fresh tears do roll;
Too young to pass, I oft ask why,
God granted leave to one still prime.

In passing winds I still can hear,
Her gentle voice both light and clear;
I see her face in stars above,
Her soul uprisen on wings of doves.

I feel her touch in zephyrs soft,
Her gentleness in clouds aloft,
And when her tears come down in rain
To bless my soul; I feel her pain;

But then a rainbow yon I see,
A smile to show she thinks of me,
As ever I do think of her;
In timeless love, two hearts endure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

You scorned me since I could not be possessed,
For I was born beneath broad, endless skies—
To hail sunrise in east—sunset in west;
I wandered meadows like the clouds on high.
At night, beneath a brooding yellow moon,
Heard wolves compete in forlorn lonesome calls,
Soft-serenaded by lamenting loons,
Or then afar, by lowing cattle bawls;
But you were every inch a city lass,
Born with a clock in both your heart and soul,
Fair-coddled by tall walls of clay and glass,
All measured worth defined by golden tolls.
I hope you find a heart true to your ends,
As mine roams free on brazen prairie winds.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

She loves me; she loves me not; she loves me—
What fortune lies within pert petals dropped?
Why none, of course, save in the one still free,
Clinging to that stem soon to be tossed.
How true to life is yet this child’s game,
Since love too oft seems but a measured chance;
Where if I choose a simple flower to maim,
The numbered petals mark proposed romance.
This puerile plot therein guides chosen fate,
For how I start determines the accord,
And in feigned hope my love, I consecrate;
Success assured in this sweet floret shorn.
Contriving destiny upon a bloom—
Is but a folly many hearts assume.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Innocent love, far sweeter than a child’s,
Unconditional, free of vanity,
Her heart was pure, her body lithe and mild—
Blue eyes so clear, her soul lay bare to see.
She loved me true, of this I always knew
And what she gave, she asked naught in return;
I took her love as any man might do—
Embraced the form, while yet the heart I spurned.
Time is both balm and bane, it often seems;
Somewhere along the path I lost my way,
And soon I held her solely in my dreams,
‘Midst echos of the tender things she’d say.
In private moments when I breathe her name…
I wonder if she smiles—or does the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.