The Candle, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Woman with a Taper, Jules Breton 1873Woman with Taper, Jules Breton (1873)

The Candle

Candle’s glow let forever to be your guide
Making sure its bright flame never to quit
The wind’s access must always be denied
Wind is evil, tempting you to submit

Might your candle’s glow suddenly disappear
Do not place it in a darkened drawer
For your future will then become nadir
Must make an effort its flame to restore

Surround yourself with those whom you think dear
Be not afraid to share what is you fear
If true to yourself future will be clear
The glow of the flame you now will restore

Light of the candle to you be sacred
Then drink of His wine and eat of His bread

 

 

Sea Calling Me, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Sea Calling MeImage manipulated by author

Sea Calling Me

In quiet stillness I observe the hue
Of the mighty endless sea before me
Sweeping eyes drinking the depth of her blue
With desire to be consumed by this sea

I’ve visited her countless times before
She always seems to appeal to me more
Calling me with gentleness of her shore
Her soft tender loving clutch I adore

I am naked to all of her power
Still shy, with my toes I touch her azure
Her wave coaxes me a little closer
Now I am totally consumed by her

Joy as she touches every part that be
She gives me a feeling of being free

 

Nana, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

NanaNana, Edouard Manet (1877)

Book by Emile Zola

Nana

You have the power to control the sun
There’s not a man who your beauty would shun
A magnetic allure second to none
The world’s most desirable courtesan

Not very long ago you walked the street
Elevated to stage door men you’d greet
Now many men lay prostrate at your feet
Creating dreams for fools by your deceit

Do wonder what it is you have inside
Some darkened secret of the past you hide
Never thinking to be a loving bride
Surely absent is a life filled with pride

Easily shared your body not amour
You do know you are but a high priced whore

 

Suicide, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

SuicideLe Suicide, Edouard Manet (1877)

Suicide

Is true to what I have really done
Desire to rid myself of misery
Lying here still bleeding holding a gun
In death thinking I’d be totally free

There is torture in the time that remains
Bed continues to hold her luscious scent
My sick heart shackled in her mighty chains
Absent her savage kiss I now lament

I’m afraid now to close these heavy eyes
In her full beauty she shall reappear
Knowing she is the devil in disguise
To guide me straight to hell is what I fear

It is love that caused the hellish nightmare
And life only comes with a one way fare

Barn, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

BarnAllensville Hay Press Barn, Switzerland County, Gwen Gutwein (2008)

Barn

Its many boards of gray are on display.
Their opened grain bear the signs of aged pain.
From their perfect centers did move away.
Long gone are the days of its mighty reign.

Shows no mighty power to right itself,
Relying totally on my pity.
Knowing each board makes for a proper shelf,
Adding many dollars to my kitty.

Once inside I could feel its unique scent,
Wondering where all those memories went.
Where I day upon day happily spent,
Lingering has changed my early intent.

I’d better go and fetch the proper crane,
As this is where this creature shall remain.

 

Autumn by the River, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Autumn by the riverAutumn, Emilio Sánchez Perrier (c. 1900)

Autumn by the River

Song birds of the trees have made their retreat
Cool winds of autumn chased summer away
Colors of the quiet land now blasé
Busy fields in summer are not deplete

Paces of the past are now slowing down
Giving moments of pure quiet pleasure
Thinking of the silos filled with treasure
Waiting arrival winter’s bridal gown

Cataloging thoughts at the river’s edge
Reminiscing the joys that came my way
In mind the desire to ensure they stay
Seeking more in the future is my pledge

Studying the river as it goes by
It is my life passing by that I see
Message is always busy I must be
Like plants I will eventually die

 

 

 

Glass Door, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

windowImage manipulated by author

Glass Door

With bucket of water, squeegee and rag,
Performing menial chore I abhor.
For it will always make my spirits sag,
Daily cleaning of the stately glass door.

Fully covered with finger prints galore.
Strange as it be that it has no push bar,
Makes me hate this nasty door even more.
Without a key lock makes it more bizarre.

Limitless numbers who come but can’t pass.
Is this door’s only purpose to harass?
Or clearly an obstruction made of glass,
To ensure creation of an impasse?

Now clearly understanding took an axe,
Gave the mighty wall of glass forty whacks.