Alone at Night, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Alone at Night

Alone at Night

This late pacific night is flat and dark
The many guiding stars have lost their glow
Even the nightingale withholds remark
Appears all life ceased until tomorrow

There’s certain pleasure in a sightless night
Life’s confusing labyrinth made to yield
Its many paths made straight within your sight
Discovering ways that wounds can be healed

In the darkness let your mind be your eye
To the sea’s cold crushing depths let it dive
To the unconquered mountains let it fly
In this compelling world learn to survive

Thoughts this night created must guide your life
Left to another there’s apt to be strife

 

Room Filled with Memories a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

smoke

Room Filled with Memories

The setting sun like a Christmas shopper
Elbowed its way through the grimy window
Filtered through gray swirls of cigarette smoke
Coming to rest on his crusty old face
Darted with numerous porcupine quills
Staring aimlessly at his headless beer
Giving it a quarter turn lifted it
To his chattering calloused puffy lips
His dewlap swings on cue with each guzzle
After three swings he closes his left eye
With spindle fingers aims for the sweat ring
Acting like the bombardier he once was
He has now had his limit for the day
Sliding slowly off his rickety chair
Making sure both feet were square on the floor
Tipping his cap he staggered to the door

Golden Leaves, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The AvenueThe Avenue, Claude Monet (1878)

Golden Leaves

Whispering autumn wind came rolling in
Sending shivers to every golden leaf
Many of them beginning downward spin
Without displaying any sign of grief

The remainder held on with a belief
They have value and should somehow survive
Not falling to what they think is a thief
With power as to who remains alive

But are they some sort of romantic fools
Blinded by confusing view what is life
Distorting the basics of nature’s rules
Resisting can only create more strife

Trees stand naked, the golden leaves are gone
All now beneath the snow, none left to mourn

 

The Terminal, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The TerminalSandro Botticelli, Drawing for Dante’s Divine Comedy, 1480-95

The Terminal

A desk-clerk’s inaudible voice crackles
Giving the departures and arrivals
Some people moving as if in shackles
While others on their back carry anvils

Acrid air itself held a prisoner
Resisting but no choice I have to breathe
Feels heavy, making everything a blur
Got the feeling of being in a sheathe

Grimy concrete gives unobtrusive paths
To inauspicious restrooms and seating
Concrete texture constant outside the baths
A long hot one wish will soon be taking

Taxing but decided to take a seat
Having ample time before departing
Thought the less than being on angry street
Of shoving people and taxis blaring

In my mind am querying why this route
Are Dante and Virgil soon to arrive
Surely Beatrice will not come about
Is this my penance in this morose hive

Vanquished people trudging by looking up
Checking changes made to scheduling board
While others spread their meaningless gossip
Feeding on those who tend their sacred hoard

I now begin staring at the schedule
The click, changing from on time to delay
Creating a pain extremely awful
Causing my gray mind to begin to stray

Bowing my head yielding to this defeat
Wondering if I will get out of here
There are now cold shackles upon my feet
Now leaving has become my greatest fear

Autumn Leaves, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Autumn LeavesAutumn Leaves, John Everett Millais (1856)

Autumn Leaves

Autumn a time of change and gathering
When the days are warm and the nights have bite
The sun’s bright time with us now lessening
And feathered sometime friends are taking flight

Time for gathering shaded fallen leaves
An attempt to make the fields appear clean
Huddling around the pyre everyone grieves
Praying that their souls shall now be pristine

Persephone ate pomegranate seeds
Now into the great darkness she descends
So will all not accounting for misdeeds
No better time than now to make amends

Autumn we move into the barns our wealth
And time to consider our moral health