Tag Archives: Life

Tears of the Tulip, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Tears of the Tulip

Morning comes with marbled remorse
The once pure white head now falters
From its bed is soon to divorce

Morning comes with marbled remorse
Its gentle softness becomes coarse
The white tulip’s beauty now blurs

Morning comes with marbled remorse
The once pure white head now falters

Image credit

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Beware of Angels’ Tears, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Beware of Angels’ Tears

A dark flat carpeting covered the sky
Without warning guns flashed ─ cannonballs flew
Such shaking ─ thought I was going to die
Overcome by a fear I never knew

Was like every angel started to cry
Feverish it was ─ was knocked to the ground
Thinking never again will I be dry
Then there was nothing ─ could not hear a sound

Looking upwards ─ there was no need to pray
The air was clear ─ all stood silently still
It appears today won’t be judgement day
But I was wrong ─ becoming ghostly ill

Those were really the tears of angels
Now they’re holding smiling devilish skulls

The Artist and His Model, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Artist and His Model, Edvard Munch (1921)

This wanting heart is tugged by my feelings
As soon as she enters my barren room.
For it is special excitement she brings
That shall certainly result in my doom.
Her robe slides off as if doing a waltz
Now displaying the body of Venus.
I am overcome by my many faults!
Possessed by thoughts my bed will comfort us.
Adjusting her pose I touch her soft skin.
Looking at her I see a glowing smile
To place her head my hand is on her chin.
Desiring her there can’t be denial!
Her thick ruby red lips my brush does paint.
Deep thoughts of those lips enveloping mine.
My growing desire there is no restraint
Of her delicious body I must dine.
As if a drug addict I am controlled
By painful desire toward each model.
Mad, mad, to the Devil I have been sold
To share a love and life I’m unable.

The Small Blue Boat, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Small Blue Boat

Her possessions robbed
The small blue boat bobbed
In the bouncing sea.
Tethered to the dock
Secured by a lock.
When the wild winds blow
No place can she go.
While rising water
Climbs o’er her gunwale
Apt to fill her hull.
Her jostling about
Has left not a doubt
Soon to the bottom
She’s going to sit
Having no spirit.
Nothing to live for
Won’t fight anymore.
So sad, slowly she
Sinks to her demise.
There’ll be no goodbyes.

John Street, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

John Street

The ice cold steel chains
Across the white blanket strains
To clear level paths
The monster with angry growl
And its language pretty foul
Rusty dual stacks
Puffing clouds of grays and blacks
Refusing to yield
The red monster makes its way
Pushing ahead not to stray
Flakes of white scatter
Recklessly from where they were
Soon to be corralled
The plow making dunes of white
Mittens wave with much delight
Towing my wood sled
It sheds rust moving ahead
John Street is our goal
It’s a mountain of a hill
Sure to give me quite a thrill
My feet used to steer
Showing not a bit of fear
Over the hill’s crest
There will be no stopping now
Speeding down I scream a wow
The ride is over
Wishing it was much longer
Looking up to see
The distance I have traveled
A smile for I am baffled
Life is like my ride
As did my sled time did slide
The sun is setting
It’s time to be heading home
Of this ride shall not bemoan