Spring, 1889, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Spring, 1889 Edvard Munch

The winter winds have paved the way for spring.
It is now time to open the windows,
To change the stale air and hear the birds sing.
Like sails, the white curtains the soft wind blows.

Silently she sits staring into space,
As her mind tries to remember the past,
While the sun’s warmth falls upon her pale face.
Blank without expression she is downcast.

To the question she can find no answer.
So weak is she her soft voice does not speak.
Will there be joy for her in the future,
Or like foretime and today one that’s bleak?

The birds went silent, her arms by her side,
There’ll be no tomorrow for she has died.

Under the Tree, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Under the tree

There will come a time
When I shall no longer be.
No more than
Food for the waiting tree.

In so little time
I shall be but a memory.
Fading ever quickly
As the winter’s sun.

Hear the tick of time
Rushing into the future
With so little regard
To the call of a beggar.

Love has little time
To deliver its tender touch.
One to last forever
From her I love so much.

From death there’s no retreat
Yet I shall return
As a scented flower
That grows under the tree.

Red Raindrops Fell, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Red Raindrops Fell. This poem I dedicate to all veterans, past and present.

The red raindrops fell
Pitter patter thick as jell
Falling randomly
Like players placing their bet
Cleared with rateau de roulette

War is not a game
A winner we cannot claim
There are body counts
Each tagged then placed in a bag
Soon to be draped with a flag

None intend to die
Deny, is to tell a lie
They’re our true treasure
There’s a huge price that we pay
With tears falling every day

Without a goodbye
In the dark cold earth they lie
Silent they all are
In a place starkly barren
Not again to feel the sun

The Minotaur, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Minotaur

The flag struggles as if to fly away
While the trees shake back and forth at their roots
Somersaulting leaves look if they’re at play
Huddling cows yet to put on winter suits
Coal dust colored clouds grumble on their way
As small furry creatures go down their chutes
What a horrific sight is on display
Anything in its way it persecutes

The great north winds I have lived through before
From its meanness there will be no relief
It’s banging and banging at my front door
To get inside to deliver its grief
The sound it makes signifies we’re at war
Showing anger its visit won’t be brief
Again we’re visited by Minotaur

He unleashes anger throughout the night
First beating rain then turning into snow
With each passing hour more fear does ignite
As wind pushes snow into mountains they grow
The sun forces itself through the clouds with light
Those who burst out to freedom don’t wallow
But attempt to control continued fright
For the winds did cease just moments ago

How much damage did he leave in his wake
Depends on his anger in his visit
For he takes whatever he wants to take
Their lives some unwillingly shall forfeit
From his visit there’s sure to be heartbreak
What he leaves behind there is no merit
His horror is what’s kept as a keepsake
There is someone who will never forget

The Girl in the Window, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Girl by the WindowThe Girl by the Window, Edvard Munch (1893)

The Girl by the Window

The full moon is high in the sky.
There is calm at this time of night,
Yet I’m not, I am sure the why.
For my body is wrought with fear!
Was told that fear I must control,
My life as is brings early death.
For reason I can’t meet my goal,
Will I soon take my final breath?
In the earth will that be the end?
May be better than current fate.
If soon my life I cannot mend,
When exactly is it too late?
Shall I just crawl back to my bed,
To simply wait for death to come?
But if there’s truth I have a soul,
Better I kneel, begin to pray,
To gain faith I’m willing to toil,
That time ’till end I can delay.
Is it correct for what I ask?
Not knowing what is best for me,
Is truly life’s most daunting task.
What ought to be done to be free?

Train Smoke, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Train SmokeTrain Smoke, Edvard Munch (1900)

Train Smoke

Life is like a train ride, from birth to death.
We all know our final destination,
Yet there can be solace along the way.

The train makes many stops on its journey,
For its passengers to gather postcards,
And bright stickers to place on their baggage

I see many babies coming aboard,
Held so securely, in their mothers’ arms
With no understanding of the event

At stops, relatives and friends disembark.
Some wave joyfully as the train departs,
Others trodden off, all I see are backs.

I look at my disheveled bag, and smile,
There is not anymore room for stickers,
Then I close my eyes, to see my postcards.

Awakened, I feel the train slowing down.
It makes a grinding, screeching, ugly sound.
Oh, this is my stop, I must now get off!

Blossom of Pain, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Blossom of PainBlossom of Pain, Edvard Munch (1898)

Blossom of Pain

When I die
I continue to live

My painful body
Placed in the ground
To return to dust
Whence I came
I become food
The food for new life

Return to where I lay
Pick the blossom
Each blossom is penance
To rid me of my pain

Place it to your lips
I will kiss you