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

Winter’s First Snow, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Winter’s First Snow

The air is crisp as a fresh picked apple,
Makes not a sound moving between the trees.
Showing little, the moon appears bashful,
Or just acting playful, being a tease.
A sprinkle of stars are but a cupful.
Playing hide and seek with the draperies,
So numerous floating by, quite agile.
Looking up at the sky puts me at ease.

Huffing and puffing sending smoke signals,
Warning all there is a chill in the air.
My ears feel the cold air taking nibbles.
Surely, the proper clothing I don’t wear.
Yielding with hand out to catch the crystals.
Such foolishness for I did not prepare.
Like a child released several giggles.
I better move quickly using great care.

Within minutes white stuff covers my hair.
Each flake falls like feathers scattered about,
Not so thick my vision it would impair.
Feeling a special joy in being out.
Catching the white flakes with my stuck out tongue,
Wondering what will happen with winter,
Weather having so nonchalantly sprung?
Time to move to where it will be warmer.

The Minotaur, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Minotaur

The flag struggles as if to fly away
While the trees shake back and forth at their roots
Somersaulting leaves look if they’re at play
Huddling cows yet to put on winter suits
Coal dust colored clouds grumble on their way
As small furry creatures go down their chutes
What a horrific sight is on display
Anything in its way it persecutes

The great north winds I have lived through before
From its meanness there will be no relief
It’s banging and banging at my front door
To get inside to deliver its grief
The sound it makes signifies we’re at war
Showing anger its visit won’t be brief
Again we’re visited by Minotaur

He unleashes anger throughout the night
First beating rain then turning into snow
With each passing hour more fear does ignite
As wind pushes snow into mountains they grow
The sun forces itself through the clouds with light
Those who burst out to freedom don’t wallow
But attempt to control continued fright
For the winds did cease just moments ago

How much damage did he leave in his wake
Depends on his anger in his visit
For he takes whatever he wants to take
Their lives some unwillingly shall forfeit
From his visit there’s sure to be heartbreak
What he leaves behind there is no merit
His horror is what’s kept as a keepsake
There is someone who will never forget

Rose in the Snow, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

a pot of live roses partly covered by snow
Image manipulated by author

Rose in the Snow

Autumn leaves are now easily scattered,
Running here and there seeking safe cover,
Away from a wind visibly angered.
Is there nowhere to avoid its bluster?

The red rose shows courage standing her ground,
Not yielding an inch as the vexed wind swirled,
In its effort her colors to impound.
As a taunt bright red color she unfurled.

Then ever vengeful wind throws ice of white,
Pummeling her through the darkness of night.
Each passing hour she continues to fight,
Her red color remains at sun’s first light.

Though winning the battle the end is near,
But rose in the snow shall return next year.

The Visitors, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The VisitorsLa Neige, Charles-François Daubigny (1873)

The Visitors

The snow’s cold whiteness creeps up to my door
While the melancholy sun bids farewell
Mystically crows swarm more than five score
There is an urgent message they must tell

Raising my shovel they will not scatter
With great fear I hold my quivering breath
It’s easy to understand their banter
These darkened creatures sing their song of death

Where summer they’d quietly steal my corn
Autumn barren fields provide easy prey
Not here to repay my gun’s bitter scorn
No they’re just here to say this is my day

Would prefer a single singing angel
Rather than this rowdy crowd of babel

 

Snow Scene, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Henry Alexander, Snow Scene through a Winter Window, 1870.Snow Scene through a Winter Window, Henry Alexander (1870)

Snow Scene

Under blankets, another frigid night
Could feel aching chill in my weary bones
Feared what horror there would be my first sight
Feeling confident would be many moans

Looking through button holes, saw the bright white
Tired of the piling up of winter’s snow
This freezing matter is no longer trite
Miserable stuff really must go

A death row prisoner is what I am
Give me my last meal and be done with it
Never have been fan of winter’s program
Ever bored of doing nothing but sit

For the joy of spring I hunger and thirst
Can I survive, it’s but November first