Wildflowers in front of a Cornfield, Carl Frederik Aagaard (n. d.)
Stone, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Stone I am, here forever will remain.
No wind can blow me to another place,
Like your ripened seeds, with the least of strain,
So from earth your beauty will not efface.
To be you or any other flower,
Creating generations easily.
Here standing as if a giant anchor,
Never to speak of dearest progeny.
My actual tenure here you’ll never know,
Bearing the summer heat and winter cold,
And the autumn watching seeds you do sow,
But it’s the spring when my worth is told.
From the sun I shall collect needed heat,
Protecting your progeny’s tiny feet.
The Belgian Model, Herbert Wilson Forster (c. 1890)
John the Messenger, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Why is it that you need to question me?
Can’t you see clear with your eyes who I be?
It is I who His message do carry,
His final action shall set us all free.
Me! Not worthy His sandal to untie.
Making the way straight for Him, I do cry.
Baptism of water is what I apply,
And soon for Him I shall eagerly die.
He now walks among us in open view,
Brings the Holy Spirit for all of you.
All these words I speak to you are so true,
By your faces I see you haven’t a clue.
Make the way straight for the coming of the Lord.
He comes with message of love, not the sword!
Break-up of the ice on the Seine, near Bennecourt, Claude Monet (1893)
Ice, the Time Capsule, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
Winter’s chill has made the river e’er still,
The lives just prior are now locked inside.
Imprisoned is the wheel of the grist mill.
Waters no longer able to confide.
Many struggle not knowing what to do,
Times pull them forward in uncertain sway.
Some by fear are in want to start anew,
Others already made their getaway.
Starting to be warmed the old ice breaks free,
Tries to flow away as fast as could be.
Ever eager to be downed in the sea,
So ugly sins held others may not see.
For all sins that arose in the spring mist,
It is best their forgiveness to enlist.
La Fenaison, Julien Dupre (1884)
Haymaking, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Smelling the new mowed hay forever stays,
In your heart and your soul in many ways.
Body fatigued from the ever long days,
Dissolved by beautiful songs of great praise.
Her joyous voice that of a meadow lark,
Shall sing her praise until it’s nearly dark,
For such a bounty from earth’s matriarch,
Who has shown to be her greatest bulwark.
Looking around at the work that’s been done,
The land given its hay is now barren.
This season shall see no further action,
The wonder of it all makes me chasten.
To be connected to this hallowed earth,
Brings with every season thankful rebirth.
Man at the Door, Alfred Henry Mauer (n.d.)
Man at the Door, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
With black spot so deep my heart melts away.
Rigid in posture just another day.
Frozen tongue with nothing of worth to say.
This day the sun with its new shade of gray.
No matter how I push with all my might.
Unknown reason can’t seem to get it right.
To open the door and escape my plight.
Your vision is forever in my sight.
Were it possible to relive the past.
Could I somehow be changed to make it last.
Must be able to grasp our time as passed.
This abyss between us is now too vast.
People constantly change during their lives,
There are those likely to vary their strides.
Old Blackford Bridge, Walter Hall (1910)
The Bridge, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Built of steel and concrete was quite a feat.
They came from afar to see this marvel.
Designed so others could easily meet.
Reducing many miles of their travel.
Soon subtle difference became aware,
Not easily seen from opposite shore.
Upon the bridge many would stop to stare,
With looks so ugly they could start a war.
Little by little traffic did decrease,
Finally only the winds dared to cross.
Blockades now in place guarded by police,
The peace bridge is now home to grass and moss.
What is it that keeps so many apart?
Sages are yet unable to impart.
Toxophilites, William Powell Frith (1872)
An Arrow for a Rake, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
Spent, a straight arrow is swift and silent,
When properly placed upon hickory.
With effort soon be master of the hunt,
Able to flick the wings off of a flea.
My prime target should be an easy chore,
Though it moves ever stealthy in the night.
Often found at another’s bedroom door,
Will not be hard to get it in my sight.
The object is an arrow in its heart,
For the deep aching pain it has caused me.
Some will say my actions not very smart,
But will have joy, tho hanging from a tree.
There be nothing worse than my vengeful scorn,
That awful rake shall regret he was born.