By the Window, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

By the WindowInger by the Window, Edvard Munch (1892)

By the Window

Breathe deeply so you can hear it enter.
Soft invigorating wind on its way.
A mixture of sweet grass and salt water,
Twisting and turning, dancing a ballet.

Precious in scent as it comes in but May,
With calm winds coming off the bright blue sea,
And the frolicking grass yet become hay.
Come quickly! From this window we must flee.

Naked toes shall mix in the grass and sand.
Collecting shells as proof of memories.
Now slowly walking back with hand in hand,
With enormous grins each other’s we squeeze.

Oh, the simply joys we visit in life
Giving us special moments from its strife.

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!

Evening Talk, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Eveni talk black and whiteEvening Talk, Edvard Munch (1889)

Evening Talk

Even in the daylight there is darkness
The heavy leaded shield that hides the heart
Not allowing in loving tenderness
Suffocating any flame that may start

A woeful choice to request such a life
Forever absent of a human touch
The ever presence of deafening strife
Keeping a distance, avoiding a clutch

But why should one accept such drudgery
To wait for the day you are in a grave
Being lonely for an eternity
If only with a loving heart you gave

Resisting all love will not set you free
Instead, makes you a slave to hollowness
Thinking you are taking life so bravely
Your thinking is filled with much foolishness

Sweeping Change, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

a straw broom sweeps a floor

Sweeping Change

The straw broom mimicking a hockey stick
Using the hard corner to help it stand
Never was it considered iconic
Not stamped nor labeled with a regal brand

Every whisk over the years had a cost
Its bright lacquered handle becoming dull
Each laboring a little straw was lost
In time making it less desirable

Now missing the touch of a human hand
Dancing hours away on many a floor
Responding to the hand’s earnest command
Seeking out what may hide in any pore

It was not difficult to be deduced
By an eager youngster it was replaced

Naked Tree, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Naked Tree

Naked Tree

Not sure if mighty sea be friend or foe
Determines what near it allowed to grow
Is it possible has but single mind
Or has it the power to be unkind

Many decades in green cover it stood
All that remains now is its naked wood
Was it salt from the sea that caused its death
Or its water slowly stymied its breath

I see no reason for the mighty sea
To fester a desire to kill a tree
It does not appear the luck of the draw
That is killing our trees along the shore

Reasoning says no tree lives forever
Be no toil to shorten this endeavor
The reverse effort should be our pleasure
As our abundant trees are a treasure

If you stand aside the tree dressed in black
Is it your fervent want to bring it back
Or just a photo opportunity
With naked branches as a canopy

 

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