I do not want to see her anymore
I do not want to see her
I do not want to see
I do not want to
I do not want
I do not
I do

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

On this sweet day, as children laugh and play,
At times nearby, content beneath your gaze,
And others, roaming wide and far away;
While memory drifts through time’s obscuring haze.
Such moments bring a comfort, warm and deep,
Your heart afire with love’s enduring  flame—
To stir the soul until you softly weep,
Still musing on a dear and cherished name.
The labors borne through love and sacrifice
Live on in those you’ve raised to bloom and grow;
These dreams are gold—beyond all earthly price,
That wealth of heart that only mothers know;
A mother’s love is love beyond compare—
The sweetest flower grown in heavens’ air.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When the sun has bleached my colors
And the stars are growing dim,
When my weary back is bending
And my hair is growing thin.

When I am no longer roving
And I hunker by the hearth,
When no distant ports are calling
And sweet home is now my berth.

When the stag stands on the hillside,
Now unafraid to roar;
And the salmon swims the river,
Unmolested by my lure.

When the snow filled mountain valleys
Are not christened by my tracks,
And dark distant jungle trails;
Are but seldom now cut back.

When my JR rifle’s silent
And my pack lays on the floor;
When the golden past safaris
Are but memories evermore —

Though the sun still rises early,
And I know I’ll seldom roam;
I’ll yet quench the quest within me,
‘Til my father calls me home.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Not much of a poet was I
But I could make you laugh and cry –
So what else does it matter?

When I look at your visage fair
Where none I see that could compare
Then what else does it matter?

When cherished life is so fleeting
And soft clasped hands set hearts beating;
Then what else does it matter?

If these words could transcribe our love
And lift it up to stars above;
Then what else does it matter?

What’s meant to be is you and me
On the wind, in the sky forever;
A love that lives and ever gives –

And that is what truly matters!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Where were you when I most needed your grace,
When acrid tribulations held me bound;
The devil gripped me tight in his embrace,
And everywhere, pure evil did surround—
You turned away in my most desperate hour,
Or so it seemed—you did not try to call;
A simple note—so well within your power—
Your silent absence stifling like a pall.
I held you dear—a true and loyal friend,
Stalwart, bold, unshaken through and through;
Where trust and kindness sure would never end—
A love we would not ever need renew.
But I was wrong. You did not truly care:
A “friend” indeed—when weather waxes fair.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Behold—the sepulcher of my poetic soul…
The final resting place of breath in ink—
To shrine your life in verse, my only goal,
And with this final act—to nothingness I sink.
Like artisans who’ve sought eternal life,
I seek it not for self—but all for you,
To etch your peerless grace with heaven’s light;
Your timeless essence, here in words to prove—
Still ever ‘gainst oblivion to rage;
Yet I to fade, like all forgotten pens
That bled a magnum opus on a page—
Then drowned in ink, not to be seen again.
This rune was writ that my hand not obscure,
Or cast some shadow that might yet deter.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Though time may fell the works of mighty kings,
And fate erase the lineage of men;
Some higher voice from blackened ash may sing,
To weigh our sins and shape the world again.
What shall they say of our intemperate flame,
Of passion loosed where reason should have reigned?
Of pride and prejudice that burned a world in shame,
And left behind a searing, scorched terrain.
Perhaps with hindsight, they’ll attain more grace,
And from the wreckage inscribe a nobler law—
That tempered will leads to a kinder place
And future kin regard the earth in awe.
May God ordain the very path they seek—
A world destroyed, leaves nothing for the meek.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Like a pitiful insect behind glass
So frantic for the wilder world beyond,
Surmising the invisible impasse
Will be surmounted—surely before too long;
So has my passion raged pursuing you,
And so too so has my quest been thus denied;
Against this bar I fling myself anew,
In desperate love that voids all earthly pride.
An unrequited love is as a scourge—
Chastening where there has been yet no crime,
Twisting sweet serenade into a dirge,
And bleeding life of all its precious time;
Though lovers cling to cherished hopes they see,
Some loves are lost—some never meant to be.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Of crime and punishment we oft believe
That Lady Justice is both blind and pure,
But canons, born of man, can oft deceive
While shades of bias yet may still obscure.
A punishment accorded to a crime
And yet the foul weight of each misdeed
Is subject not to reason or to rhyme,
And often there to bigotry concedes.
Power to adjudge, tainted by the heart
Is but ubiquitous in meted laws;
In gauging others, we our bent impart
And in so doing, show our self-same flaws.
So faulted be our judge of fellow man…
What stone should ever leave the weigher’s hand?

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Each finds the other, matched in measured worth;
So just in judgement is the proof of love-
The humbler, rarely weds with nobler birth,
And keen of mind, no dullard yet shall move.
The doer suffers not the sluggard well,
The pious not the scourge of wicked heart,
The gallant rarely with the timid dwell,
And truth from lies will frequently depart.
But how each chooses each is still unsure
For outward viewers swear that love is blind;
Yet some unspoken gravity immures
A sense of balance kindred hearts enshrine.
So why you should choose me, there is no sense,
And for this love, there is no recompense.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.