Stone, a poem by Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Aagaard Carl_Frederik_Aagaard - Wildblumen_vor_einem_Getreidefeld

Wildflowers in front of a Cornfield, Carl Frederik Aagaard (n. d.)

Stone, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Stone I am, here forever will remain.
No wind can blow me to another place,
Like your ripened seeds, with the least of strain,
So from earth your beauty will not efface.

To be you or any other flower,
Creating generations easily.
Here standing as if a giant anchor,
Never to speak of dearest progeny.

My actual tenure here you’ll never know,
Bearing the summer heat and winter cold,
And the autumn watching seeds you do sow,
But it’s the spring when my worth is told.

From the sun I shall collect needed heat,
Protecting your progeny’s tiny feet.

 

Ice, the Time Capsule, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

WAG 6133_BTBreak-up of the ice on the Seine, near Bennecourt, Claude Monet (1893)

Ice, the Time Capsule, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Winter’s chill has made the river e’er still,
The lives just prior are now locked inside.
Imprisoned is the wheel of the grist mill.
Waters no longer able to confide.

Many struggle not knowing what to do,
Times pull them forward in uncertain sway.
Some by fear are in want to start anew,
Others already made their getaway.

Starting to be warmed the old ice breaks free,
Tries to flow away as fast as could be.
Ever eager to be downed in the sea,
So ugly sins held others may not see.

For all sins that arose in the spring mist,
It is best their forgiveness to enlist.

Haymaking, a poem by Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Dupre Julien La Fenaison (1884)La Fenaison, Julien Dupre (1884)

Haymaking, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Smelling the new mowed hay forever stays,
In your heart and your soul in many ways.
Body fatigued from the ever long days,
Dissolved by beautiful songs of great praise.

Her joyous voice that of a meadow lark,
Shall sing her praise until it’s nearly dark,
For such a bounty from earth’s matriarch,
Who has shown to be her greatest bulwark.

Looking around at the work that’s been done,
The land given its hay is now barren.
This season shall see no further action,
The wonder of it all makes me chasten.

To be connected to this hallowed earth,
Brings with every season thankful rebirth.

 

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.