The Green Parrot, Vincent Van Gogh (1886)
The Green Parrot
Nary a moment inside of the door
Not given time to hang my outer coat
The eager green parrot says ‘give me more’
Never to fail for it is merely rote
The cracker is my ticket to enter
This place filled with much love and happiness
But not a place of incessant banter
A place to share my love which is endless
To taste her red velvet lips I implore
If to wait I shall certainly explode
The softness of her body to explore
Every ounce of her love to be swallowed
Hotly caressing the one I adore
Heard the parrot kept saying ‘give me more’
Vincent van Gogh, Self-portrait (1889)
Scars, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
Look at my ancient legs and arms now tired,
Which carry scars received during my life,
Yet those inside most painfully acquired.
My heart being stabbed with a verbal knife.
Of many I’ve loved the deepest was you,
The sight of your beauty my heart did quake.
My many words of love to you were true.
In your slightest absence my heart would ache.
You touched me with an ever glowing smile,
The laughter was music to me unknown.
Of your love for me was quick denial,
Now within my chest is a harden stone.
For many, the world of love is cruel,
For me, I am the perpetual fool.
A Precious Moment, Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
The afternoon sun just short of due west,
A soft wind was blowing from the northeast.
It was the part of the day I liked best,
Able to feel nature’s wonderful feast.
An ocean of wheat so close to my feet.
Wind made toy ripples like waves at the beach.
Did watch it roll all the way to the street.
Soon to be cut a new helper to teach.
Saw an intruder bisecting my wheat.
Crouched over the creature did sneak.
Yelled a fair warning you better retreat.
Was my granddaughter so gentle so meek.
We giggled we laughed unable to speak,
I placed countless kisses on her red cheek.
I have five grandchildren who I have a boundless love for. They make me smile, they make cry, but most of all they give me a feeling inside that I cannot explain. I’ve decided to write a poem especially for each of them. This will take me time. Klara got the short straw, so she goes first. I say that as a joke because of the nature of my poem.
By the way, the painting is by Vincent van Gogh. Its title is The Wheat Field and the Lark finished in 1887. Being totally frank, I wrote the poem then went searching for a painting.