The Rag Picker, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Rag PickerRagpicker, Édouard Manet (c. 1870)

The Rag Picker

His awkward gait sounds like rough sandpaper
Beneath his feet which never leave the street
Cane he carries has an uneven sound
Surely not the courier of the court
The clothes he wears were on others before
But prides himself to be neat as could be

The sack upon his shoulder soon to fill
With others now discarded memories
Blueberry jam on a favorite blouse
Most comfortable pants no longer fit
Into to his sack they will disappear
Later to be viewed for barter or sale

Some who say a street sweeper he should be
Provides security with steady pay
To him lacks important criteria
Looking at the blue sky and not the ground
Chatting chats with countless happy people
But not least the freedom he feels inside

 

Sea Escape, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Sea Escape

Sea Escape

Frozen as a statute before the sea
No words pass your lips with eyes glazed over
Surely it is another place you were
Wishing again to fly there soon to be
For here appears you pay a penalty
Fettered to be just another ambler
Rather choosing to be something grander
It is your desire to be free of me?

Nay, see majestic seagulls in the air
Like them we can now escape to freedom
Just you and I as a happy twosome
It is with you my life I wish to share
Loss of you I am not willing to bear
Minus your love what would my life become?

 

Alone at Night, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Alone at Night

Alone at Night

This late pacific night is flat and dark
The many guiding stars have lost their glow
Even the nightingale withholds remark
Appears all life ceased until tomorrow

There’s certain pleasure in a sightless night
Life’s confusing labyrinth made to yield
Its many paths made straight within your sight
Discovering ways that wounds can be healed

In the darkness let your mind be your eye
To the sea’s cold crushing depths let it dive
To the unconquered mountains let it fly
In this compelling world learn to survive

Thoughts this night created must guide your life
Left to another there’s apt to be strife

 

La Femme Fatale, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

La Femme Fatale2Separation, Edvard Munch (1896)

La Femme Fatale

Without seeing I feel you are luscious
The thought of you puts my heart in peril
When you are ever too close I’m breathless

Your enthralling scent sending me senseless
An awful pain at the highest level
Without seeing I feel you are luscious

Feelings sent I receive are precocious
But mine in return more than venial
When you are ever too close I’m breathless

My quaking a sign of being anxious
Though painful it is also wonderful
Without seeing I feel you are luscious

Hurt so hard to be nearly unconscious
Fool to think this feeling beneficial
When you are ever too close I’m breathless

My thoughts of you have now left me speechless
Overpowered by you I’m a cripple
Without seeing I feel you are luscious
When you are ever too close I’m breathless

 

Wrote thee a Love Poem, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Poem in a Bottle

Wrote Thee a Love Poem

Seeking with words a route thou love to sway
Pondered over every word there enclosed
Yet felt didn’t quite say what wanted to say
Fearful my thoughts of thee would be opposed

Lacked courage needed to read thee the verse
Coward would drop it at thou door and run
Mailing it to thee would be even worse
To burn the poem would mean we are done

Soundly struggled for simple solution
One where desire to read it you persist
But I won’t be seeking absolution
For now we can lovingly coexist

In a bottle with cork of perfect fit
Was the love poem taken to the sea
Cuddled at the beach we anxiously sit
Asking this be the day its comes to thee

Room Filled with Memories a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

smoke

Room Filled with Memories

The setting sun like a Christmas shopper
Elbowed its way through the grimy window
Filtered through gray swirls of cigarette smoke
Coming to rest on his crusty old face
Darted with numerous porcupine quills
Staring aimlessly at his headless beer
Giving it a quarter turn lifted it
To his chattering calloused puffy lips
His dewlap swings on cue with each guzzle
After three swings he closes his left eye
With spindle fingers aims for the sweat ring
Acting like the bombardier he once was
He has now had his limit for the day
Sliding slowly off his rickety chair
Making sure both feet were square on the floor
Tipping his cap he staggered to the door

The Bridge, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Bridge

The Bridge

Standing at the edge on its darkened side
Feeling like a moth pulled into a flame
Staring at a glow with eyes opened wide
What’s its message attempting to proclaim

If I were to cross where next would I go
As my vision fails to pierce the bright light
Would it lead like the star of long ago
Can’t raise a foot due to a nervous fright

Not sure there’s a path to the Promised Land
A place not to be tempted anymore
Will there be rules that I will understand
Way too much thinking making my head sore

Reduced to a matter of faith and trust
Not a subject simply to be caucused