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

 

Love’s Summer Day, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Love's Summer DayThe Lovers, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1875)

Love’s Summer Day

The soft summer breeze wrestles with the leaves
Putting at ease our thoughts with its perfume
Discomfort of our stresses it relieves
Its natural elation we consume

Eager business of the dapple sunlight
Moves about like fluttering butterflies
Pausing for a moment then taking flight
Any attempt of capture it defies

Listen to the summer songs of the birds
Their melody provides such great pleasure
We smile searching for the suitable words
Their golden voices are living treasure

Time passes as the trees shadows grow long
Is now the nightingale who sings its song

 

Grasshopper, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

GrasshopperOlive Trees, Vincent van Gogh (1889)

Grasshopper

It’s a hot summer night, I see the moon
Placing its glow on leaves of olive trees
All is alive in the shadows of June
It is good to feel the slow moving breeze

Standing bare before the bedroom window
Breathing in rose scent in the evening air
Listening to tiny creatures below
Grasshopper coaxing mate into his lair

Felt a meaningful grip upon my hips
Sensing desire to materialize
Turning to meet her parted agile lips
Her message is clear as her striking eyes

The grasshopper makes music with his legs
Soon there’ll be bountiful grasshopper eggs

 

Summer Walk, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Monsted Peder Mork-The Red Umbrella (1887)The Red Umbrella, Peder Mork Monsted (1887)

Summer Walk, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Broken shadows stir the air on my skin,
While resting at a fork along the path.
This day may choose the way I’ve never been,
Could be a pleasure seeing what it hath.

Told my chosen path has many a twist,
With many rocks may cause me to stumble.
Such be a challenge I cannot resist,
To test my belief that I am able.

Much to my delight the absence of fright,
Longer my travel much lighter the load.
Looking to the sky there was a bright light,
The reason of this began to unfold.

Realizing now I am not alone,
As this is the way to my Maker’s throne.

The Kite, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Sims, Charles, 1873-1928; The Kite

The Kite, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
Happy day, got some paper, sticks and string.
Not looking for any special design.
When we are together I’d want to sing.
There would be no doubt that it would be mine.

First time together there was so much fun.
So majestic, what a beautiful kite.
Special paint made you glisten in the sun.
My heart was so moved to see you in flight.

Little by little the string did you tug.
Felt not a choice for fear of losing you.
Feed you more string with only a mere shrug.
Before I knew you were beyond my view.

We are tethered but no song do I sing,
Still not knowing what to do with the string.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charles Henry Sims painted The Kite in 1904.  When I first saw this painting I thought it was the work of Frank Weston Benson.  Similar but the works of Benson I like have a much looser brush stroke.  Below I offer Summer 1909 by Benson.  It must have been the white dress that I focused on for I am crazy about white dresses in painting.  It amazes me how the great artists can give such depth to objects in white.

I had wished that the woman had been flying the kite because I had thought about the poem before seeing the painting.  Not sure what Sims was thinking about when he did this painting.  He was a troubled man who ended up taking his own life.  Maybe the kite was a symbol of his life getting away from him and he had no control over it. I take that thought and put in on safer grounds where two people are drifting apart.

Summer_1909_Frank_Weston_Benson