Weeping of Souls, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Wheatfield under Thunder Clouds colorWheatfield Under Thunder Clouds, Vincent Van Gogh (1890)

Weeping of Souls

Clouds we see are home for many a soul
Who hover above watching us below
Knowing their own past they try to console
With lightening and deafening echo
What if these many souls could have their say
Would we dare to stop and give a listen
Or in great business go about our way
Repeating history’s every action

The thunder of the clouds we do not heed
A mere distraction in our busy day
Not caring for the countless tears they bleed
Hoping that soon the clouds will go away
The sky now clear we are no better off
About our wet clothes all we do is scoff

The Storm, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The StormThe Waterspout, Gustave Courbet (1870)

The Storm

O that rain which comes in the darkest night
Shaking angrily my bedroom window
With its booming thunder and scaring light

Even glass within is showing some fright
A minor crack now beginning to show
O that rain which comes in the darkest night

Feeling that it rattles me just for spite
Tries to make within a horrific woe
With its booming thunder and scaring light

Bring my poor heart beat to a deathly height
Driving rain delivers its mighty blow
O that rain which comes in the darkest night

Makes my knuckles turn a ghastly pale white
Wondering what damages will it sow
With its booming thunder and scaring light

Now I’m waiting for the sun to shine bright
To spare me from this dark night’s awful glow
O that rain which comes in the darkest night
With its booming thunder and scaring light