Femme lisant dans un massif de Rhododendrons, Anna Boch (c. 1900)
Rhododendrons, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Fragrances fill my air from very side.
The vacuum quickly pulls them inside.
To my memory permanently tied,
The sweetness of this melancholy ride.
This book with great effort I do proceed,
Reading each line more than once must concede,
For my euphoric mind cannot be freed,
Just to turn a page fragrances impede.
Rhododendrons may they be pink or white,
Provide many souls with so much delight.
Into a bag, every bloom in my sight,
To sprinkle upon my bed every night.
Knowing your season’s end be very near,
Patiently await your return next year.
The Red Umbrella, Peder Mork Monsted (1887)
Summer Walk, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Broken shadows stir the air on my skin,
While resting at a fork along the path.
This day may choose the way I’ve never been,
Could be a pleasure seeing what it hath.
Told my chosen path has many a twist,
With many rocks may cause me to stumble.
Such be a challenge I cannot resist,
To test my belief that I am able.
Much to my delight the absence of fright,
Longer my travel much lighter the load.
Looking to the sky there was a bright light,
The reason of this began to unfold.
Realizing now I am not alone,
As this is the way to my Maker’s throne.
The Seamstress, Josef Gisela (1897)
The Seamstress, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
A seamstress fingers are made for action.
Parts she joins together to be just one.
The wedding dress she sews will soon be done.
But have feelings of the bride come undone?
Too young to understand what her life be,
Love glows now, but can change to misery.
So concerned with turning from me to we,
Then the need to extend family tree.
She asks, what does it take to be a bride?
Need to feel like a real wife inside,
To walk with husband, both in even stride,
Making sure any gap does not get wide.
Take each precious day, sew them together,
Being sure love withstands any weather.
Fog, Voisins, Alfred Sisley (1874)
Fog, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
The mere collision of each human sense,
Creates of fog in the mind, heart and soul,
Creating confusion of such immense,
Of sanity it takes expensive toll.
Love cannot ever of rational be,
As it is much more than just what we see,
Or the melodic voice heard so clearly,
Nor the tender touch we feel instantly.
Holding hands she looks deep into your eyes,
From her lips you hear words of lullabies,
Feeling inside you can’t rationalize,
Fog is about to materialize.
Accept the fog that makes us what we are,
Long as your love not from you vary far.
Forest in Winter, Peder Mork Monsted (1915)
Forest in Winter, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
The steady horse and I were nearing home,
When she comes to heel with no touch of rein.
Warning maybe in a place so lonesome,
Or is she stricken with some sort of pain.
Questioning, placed my feet upon the ground.
Patting her softly as I walked around.
Then did become aware, nary a sound,
Giving me a feeling that was profound.
Through visible breath I cast eyes about,
While staining my ears for something to hear.
Did wonder if could be heard if I shout.
Only my echo returned to my ear.
Yet He was here, for I could feel His grace.
Nodding, gave thanks for this heavenly place.
Saint Andrea’s Church in Torbole, Peder Mork Monsted (1909)
Spring in Torbole, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Soon I will be harking to the church’s bell,
Giving me time to sit here for a spell.
To give Him thanks that it is here I dwell,
And pray I forever be in this dell.
It is spring so now I smell the good earth,
Which with the sun shall bring about new birth.
In our many fields there shall be no dearth,
From those hours worked before taking our berth.
If there be any doubt in what I say,
And of given reason for which I pray,
Suggest you linger long, extend your stay,
For sure you will not choose to move away.
Listen to the sweet sound, it calls all now,
To thank Him who this place to us endow.
Skittle Alley in Saeby Forest. Spring Morning, Carl Frederik Peder Aagaad (1882)
Skittle Alley in Saeby Forest, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Winter has finally said its goodbye.
Was it easy on our skittle alley?
To Saeby Forest our eag’r feet shall fly,
With skittles in a bag, all are antsy.
Holding our breath, we will soon discover,
Will we play, or the balls sit anoth’r day?
At the count of three, we lift the cover.
Money’s in the pot, we’re ready to play.
Quickly, from the many sticks take your pick,
To set the order of how we will roll.
Now approach the alley to do your trick,
What great skill, where did you learn how to bowl?
Game prevails from millenniums ago,
By my simple count continues to grow.