The Avenue, Claude Monet (1878)
Whispering autumn wind came rolling in
Sending shivers to every golden leaf
Many of them beginning downward spin
Without displaying any sign of grief
The remainder held on with a belief
They have value and should somehow survive
Not falling to what they think is a thief
With power as to who remains alive
But are they some sort of romantic fools
Blinded by confusing view what is life
Distorting the basics of nature’s rules
Resisting can only create more strife
Trees stand naked, the golden leaves are gone
All now beneath the snow, none left to mourn
La Neige, Charles-François Daubigny (1873)
The snow’s cold whiteness creeps up to my door
While the melancholy sun bids farewell
Mystically crows swarm more than five score
There is an urgent message they must tell
Raising my shovel they will not scatter
With great fear I hold my quivering breath
It’s easy to understand their banter
These darkened creatures sing their song of death
Where summer they’d quietly steal my corn
Autumn barren fields provide easy prey
Not here to repay my gun’s bitter scorn
No they’re just here to say this is my day
Would prefer a single singing angel
Rather than this rowdy crowd of babel
Autumn, Emilio Sánchez Perrier (c. 1900)
Autumn by the River
Song birds of the trees have made their retreat
Cool winds of autumn chased summer away
Colors of the quiet land now blasé
Busy fields in summer are not deplete
Paces of the past are now slowing down
Giving moments of pure quiet pleasure
Thinking of the silos filled with treasure
Waiting arrival winter’s bridal gown
Cataloging thoughts at the river’s edge
Reminiscing the joys that came my way
In mind the desire to ensure they stay
Seeking more in the future is my pledge
Studying the river as it goes by
It is my life passing by that I see
Message is always busy I must be
Like plants I will eventually die
Golden Autumn, Slobodka, Isaac Levitan (1889)
Golden Autumn, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Here I sit on the hill silent and still,
Peering off to the end with mind spawning.
Autumn, the soft wind gives its gentle chill,
Time not move this day for this I’m yearning.
Relive this year impossible I fear,
Yet many memories forever be.
No doubt this has been a wonderful year,
Having those I love so much, near to me.
The darkness of winter shall soon be here,
With many memories shant shed a tear.
Plentiful laughs and giggles fill my ear,
Held so close to my heart with much revere.
In autumn some work to collect the leaves,
For me it is time to store memories.
Vasily Polenov, Woman Walking on a Forest Trail (1883)
Woman Walking on a Forest Trail, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
With bible in hand I will make my stand,
Against those who question God’s love and might.
He who may cease a life at His command,
Or give us the peace of this wondrous site.
His temple is beyond a house of stone,
It is here where my mind can hear His word.
I feel his presence though he has no throne,
It is here where my hungry heart is stirred.
Listen to the music, the sounds of joy,
Neither drums and horns nor strings can be heard,
Is smallest of creatures He does employ.
Come stand with me, your mind will be altered.
Surely this can’t be of human design,
Or random event, this place is Divine!
A Precious Moment, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
The afternoon sun just short of due west,
A soft wind was blowing from the northeast.
It was the part of the day I liked best,
Able to feel nature’s wonderful feast.
An ocean of wheat so close to my feet.
Wind made toy ripples like waves at the beach.
Did watch it roll all the way to the street.
Soon to be cut a new helper to teach.
Saw an intruder bisecting my wheat.
Crouched over the creature did sneak.
Yelled a fair warning you better retreat.
Was my granddaughter so gentle so meek.
We giggled we laughed unable to speak,
I placed countless kisses on her red cheek.
I have five grandchildren who I have a boundless love for. They make me smile, they make cry, but most of all they give me a feeling inside that I cannot explain. I’ve decided to write a poem especially for each of them. This will take me time. Klara got the short straw, so she goes first. I say that as a joke because of the nature of my poem.
By the way, the painting is by Vincent van Gogh. Its title is The Wheat Field and the Lark finished in 1887. Being totally frank, I wrote the poem then went searching for a painting.