Tag Archives: Freedom

Acacia Tree

Acacia Tree, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Look closely at me,
I am the Acacia tree.
Alone I do stand.
Any wasteland is my home.
Planted my roots. Do not roam.
Moving, I’ll resist
Those who viciously insist.
My roots stretching deep
Helping me to stay alive
While the others can’t survive.
At my wrinkled face
They throw fits to make their case
While I stand my ground.
Their buffeting I ignore
Even if they call for war.
Let me live in peace.
I know their hate will not cease.
Anger will go on,
Crying in sickening grief.
From me there’ll be no relief.
‘Cause I am different
There should not be a judgement
That I make a change.
For them I will not suborn.
From my roots will not be torn.

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Free Again, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Free Again

Impatient am I
To feel the sun in the sky
Throw open the door
Remove the shackles that bind
Many thoughts within my mind
To have my freedom
Returned will be so awesome
Going where I may
The soft spring wind at my back
It’s May time for the lilac
The weight of worry
Now removed gives me great glee
Suffocation gone
Many a highway beckons
Once again to see love ones

To be a Butterfly, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

To be a ButterflyLa Scapigliata, Leonardo da Vinci (c.1508)

To be a Butterfly

She’s imprisoned by another’s decree
Not ever given the right to be free
To love one with passion as she would choose
At will, that special one, her heart to loose

Her every motion, now to be controlled
Even with her beauty, fully extolled
Her virtues placed upon the mantelpiece
No ladder to provide for her release

To say to another, she does belong
A horrid claim, is totally wrong
Is to imply another’s property
As is to stone her for adultery

It is best to secure her with your heart
If not, without revenge let her depart

Locked Inside, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Cabin of the Customs Watch, Claude Monet (1882)

Cabin of the Customs Watch, Claude Monet (1882)

Locked Inside

Magical vastness of open blue sky,
Endless waves roaring in the azure sea,
Bring me to question and to wonder why,
How is it they are absolutely free?

Colorless whistling wind goes where it may,
Curling and swirling its uncharted route,
Assisting some winged creatures on their way,
As a boxcar would for a roustabout.

Ubiquitous blackness is a canvas,
Glowing rocketing comets passing by,
Their erratic paths seemingly ceaseless,
Majestic freedom brings tears to the eye.

Seeing signs of great freedom everywhere,
Why is it these many chains I must wear?

 

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