Man at the Door, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Mauer Alfred Henry Man-at-the-Door-2

Man at the Door, Alfred Henry Mauer (n.d.)

Man at the Door, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

With black spot so deep my heart melts away.
Rigid in posture just another day.
Frozen tongue with nothing of worth to say.
This day the sun with its new shade of gray.

No matter how I push with all my might.
Unknown reason can’t seem to get it right.
To open the door and escape my plight.
Your vision is forever in my sight.

Were it possible to relive the past.
Could I somehow be changed to make it last.
Must be able to grasp our time as passed.
This abyss between us is now too vast.

People constantly change during their lives,
There are those likely to vary their strides.

 

The Bridge, a poem by Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Hall, Walter J., 1866-1947; Old Blackford Bridge, Bury

Old Blackford Bridge, Walter Hall (1910)

The Bridge, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Built of steel and concrete was quite a feat.
They came from afar to see this marvel.
Designed so others could easily meet.
Reducing many miles of their travel.

Soon subtle difference became aware,
Not easily seen from opposite shore.
Upon the bridge many would stop to stare,
With looks so ugly they could start a war.

Little by little traffic did decrease,
Finally only the winds dared to cross.
Blockades now in place guarded by police,
The peace bridge is now home to grass and moss.

What is it that keeps so many apart?
Sages are yet unable to impart.

An Arrow for a Rake, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Frith William Powell 1872
Toxophilites, William Powell Frith (1872)

An Arrow for a Rake, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Spent, a straight arrow is swift and silent,
When properly placed upon hickory.
With effort soon be master of the hunt,
Able to flick the wings off of a flea.

My prime target should be an easy chore,
Though it moves ever stealthy in the night.
Often found at another’s bedroom door,
Will not be hard to get it in my sight.

The object is an arrow in its heart,
For the deep aching pain it has caused me.
Some will say my actions not very smart,
But will have joy, tho hanging from a tree.

There be nothing worse than my vengeful scorn,
That awful rake shall regret he was born.

Waiting to See, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Hemy Charles Napiery-Waiting (1895)Charles Napier Hemy, Waiting (1895)

Waiting to See, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Stretching the eye as far as it could watch,
Where the sea and the sky meld into none,
And all to be seen is a mere gray blotch,
Then comes the end of the earth; it is gone.

Waiting, impossible for heart to task,
Still there is demanding work to be done.
Smile to be worn is but a flimsy mask,
Fearful of the solemn bell to beckon.

The shadows run long, time to be ready.
Six days a week this is the constant drill.
Shortly to learn, the nerves must be steady,
For it is now we are told of God’s will.

Stress has left my chest with the boat in sight,
Though the sun will soon set my heart is bright.

 

Winters Past, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

z-Winterliche Landschaft mit zugefrorenem Altwasser und FigurenstaffageWintry Landscape with Frozen Water and Figure Statues, Johann Jungblut (c. 1900)

Winters Past, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

The glittering glow of winter’s first snow,
It is that time of year of so much cheer,
When Jack Frost puts on his seasonal show,
A time when we wish our love ones be near.

Is not a time to bundle up and hide.
Lights in each window to beckon with bliss.
Come in and sit awhile by the fireside,
Search for the mistletoe to get a kiss.

Turkey and toys, memories full of joy,
Sledding and skating for all of the day.
This is what I remember as a boy,
Now I see it in a different way.

Stress from hunger and pain are in full view.
Was it the same then I just never knew?

Golden Autumn, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

 

Isaac_Levitan_-_Golden_autumn._Slobodka_-_Google_Art_ProjectGolden Autumn, Slobodka, Isaac Levitan (1889)

Golden Autumn, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Here I sit on the hill silent and still,
Peering off to the end with mind spawning.
Autumn, the soft wind gives its gentle chill,
Time not move this day for this I’m yearning.

Relive this year impossible I fear,
Yet many memories forever be.
No doubt this has been a wonderful year,
Having those I love so much, near to me.

The darkness of winter shall soon be here,
With many memories shant shed a tear.
Plentiful laughs and giggles fill my ear,
Held so close to my heart with much revere.

In autumn some work to collect the leaves,
For me it is time to store memories.

Muse or Odalisque, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Courbet Gustave -Jo the Beautiful Irish Girl (1866)

Jo, the Beautiful Irish Girl,  Gustave Courbet (1866)

 

Muse or Odalisque, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The mirror shows the color of my hair,
But silent on my internal despair.
O but wishing this piece of glass could care,
As my quandary has been a nightmare.

With two so distinct can my love I share?
What I ask is it a request so rare?
Understanding it be an odd affair,
Yet to cast aside one would be unfair.

To make a choice of one my heart I’d tear.
A love of both no issues to declare.
Am able to withstand the wretched stare.
When Whistler or Courbet call I’ll be there.

Such arrangements are not so very quare.
Is it novel to have wife and affair?