So do you still call out my cursed name
When sunset’s stage does cede to darkest night;
When fearsome caricatures stalk your dreams
And beads of sweat your silken skin affright?
Do you awaken then in abject fear
And search black shadows for some trace of me—
Or yet to phantom phones that ring too clear,
A call of nothingness to hear or see?
For nothingness is all that shall remain
Save memories of bitter, barren days;
And in your mind I shall embrace all blame,
Your iron ego razing truth away.
In cruel lies you did my heart malign—
So may my memory haunt you for all time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Like a lone actor on an empty stage,
I linger here, uncertain of my part;
With lines forgot—not knowing on what page,
Or when to enter now and spill my heart.
Not knowing how to feel or what do—
Nor when to start or stop each ad libbed line,
Nor when to bow and bid the crowd adieu,
Nor mark the silent passage made by time.
Still I will act as though my God does see
And speak as though He hears each fallen word,
To give my passion thus sweet liberty
And throw my living art upon His sword—
For though my act upon this stage be flawed,
I shall play on—but for the grace of God.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

The hues of nature you have robbed in vain,
Filched too, the painted pastels of your eyes,
False beauty’s tints cannot here hide your pain,
Nor yet the evil that your heart belies.
Rouge powdered cheeks—the rose’s stolen bloom,
Your gilded flaxen hair, poached from the sun,
A visage drawn from out night’s purse of gloom—
Bold lipstick stains leave paramours undone.
But Siren colors washed with light of day,
Will run like dye in heaven’s weeping tears,
Exposing thus your harlequin display,
Made starker by the honest march of years.
You lived a life of sordid pantomime;
To such a farce, the greatest judge is Time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Let critics judge these words in years to come,
With bitter tongues, maligning all my art;
Though jeering voices strive to strike me dumb,
They cannot dull the pride within my heart—
Pride for the love I’ve ever held for you,
Pride for your faith that ever honors me;
Pride for the steadfast strength that saw us through
The darkest turns of fate’s adversity.
Yes, critics do their part—as critics must;
And envy clouds the sight of others’ gain;
In love alone we place our truest trust—
For souls thus joined shall never part again.
So let them scorn these lines with all their might;
Even in humble verse, true love shines bright.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I have crossed vast oceans of time for you,
From Olduvai to burning Arab sands,
Across Ukrainian Steppes I wandered too;
By Khazar fires I warmed my frozen hands.
I swam the Volga to join Gorm the Old,
Pushed prow with William on Pevensey’s shore;
At pilgrimage in Yorkshire I stood bold;
For Plantagenet, the whitest rose I wore.
And you, proud daughter of the rising sun,
From war and wisdom, soul of hammered steel—
A lord to serve till duty’s path be done,
Wisteria plain, to whom all others kneel.
Your journey strayed ‘neath oriental skies—
Now I sojourn ‘neath oriental eyes.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

So now you do return from god knows where—
Transcendent love, your myth, your cold hereafter;
To jilted me—love scorned and unaware—
Left nurse and nanny to your latest bastard.
Your eyes arrest me: shock and sad dismay;
What selfish purpose merits this return?
Have you but come to pick our scabs again,
To stoke deserted fires that in him burn?
What cruel love do you purport to feel?
You love not me, nor yet your selfsame child;
What twisted pleasures do your sins reveal—
What wicked webs you weave to fools beguile.
Leave now, and never darken this stout door—
And may you ever be the devil’s whore.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

What does it grieve you, for the words I’ve said?
They’re but warm breath that should not leave a stain—
‘Tis not their worth that bitter tears be shed,
But for the hurt that gives my heart such shame;
Not shame for words, but that your heart does grieve;
Grief not for speech, but what you feared they meant—
Ashamed, I see stained sorrow on your sleeve,
And grieve now too, in heartfelt recompense.
Tears that do sting—but not my woeful eyes—
Nay, biting tears that scour my heart and soul;
A pain as if a thousand jagged knives
Did cleave my flesh unto the very bone.
I beg forgiveness, hence on bended knee—
That words did wound—now here a salve should be.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Why must I praise you in a dying art,
When newer forms might win you greater fame?
What justice to your grace do words impart,
Where song and image now divide the reign?
Why press your beauty into fourteen lines
While others laud in simple verse that’s free?
Why not embrace the chaos of our times—
Now idolized by high society?
Because, my love, for who you truly are,
That you and gracious art are but the same;

For still, the sweetest sonnet can’t compare—
Nor perfumed words here merit your acclaim;
I penned these words for you, my heart to give—
So artful truth and beauty ever live.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

These words, though writ for many touch the few,
The few that trust not eyes, but trust the soul;
The ones that scan black ink, yet see right through,
Where to distill the truth is but the goal.
Thus they will see the beauty of your eyes;
And marvel at the luster of your hair;
See gracious splendor here devoid of pride;
A sainted spirit born of heaven’s air;
They’ll feel the softness of your tender touch;
And bask beneath the radiance of your smile,
Fair gaze upon a feminine nonesuch—
Whose virtue could the very gods beguile.
Yes, they will share the pleasures of your grace,
As I, in ink, your wonders now retrace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I came to you not much a beggar born,
And there I pledged my troth, your heart to win;
My only gift—a lowly life thus sworn
And all the love one humble man could give.
I clasped your hand, head bowed, on bended knee;
Scorn and repudiation set to hear;
Girding my soul, my sentence yet to grieve—
Sweet love to die upon the altar there.
Your words came as an arrow to my heart,
But not the bolt whereof sweet love lies slain;
Nay, with the best dear Eros could impart,
If love did ever trust upon his aim;
So for your love when asked what ploy I plied,
I fair reply: the gods were on my side.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.