Spring Landscape, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Spring Landscape

Outside the window
Is a dissimilar world
Of white and tense gray.
Absent the sun’s warming glow
The tired snow remains unfurled.
Waiting and wanting
For the water to set free
As it is now spring.
Many colors will it bring
And will put leaves on each tree.
Every day I watch
Praying for the warmth to come
Quickly to my place
So I do not see a swatch.
To see the ground will be awesome.
My drab winter coat
Is now stored in the closet.
The sky is bright blue.
Out of storage comes the boat
There is music in my strut.

My Winter Plan, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

My Winter Plan

It’s a very special time of the year
Time for developing a winter plan
Freezing temperatures shall soon be here
Forget about working on your suntan

The sun is now shortening her workday
Instead of bright green I see dull yellow
Many a bird has chosen not to stay
Instead flying away before the snow

There’ll be visits of the polar vortex
With vehicles preferring not to move
While their drivers suffer from the effects
This turmoil and trouble I don’t approve

My plan is quite simple to understand
Tickets purchased to palm trees and white sand

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.

My Scarf, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

My Scarf

My Scarf

Winter’s bitter cold gripped a local lake.
Flat before me of white turning to gray,
Melding into the color of the sky.
There would be no glimmer of sun today!

There were no sounds of the woodsy creatures,
Just a bass sound coming from naked trees,
Tossing to the will of the northwest winds.
Had the feeling that only I exist.

Wondering if I dare to wander out.
Could I be given greater solitude?
What is to be gained by such a visit?
With skis locked in place I bolted from the shore

Looking back at my scarf upon a tree,
To get a sense of where I might be now.
It sat quietly on the horizon
Warning that no further shall I proceed.

Turning fully around, heard not a sound.
Trees in the distance now a solid mass.
Was not feelings of exhilaration!
Just a dim feeling of isolation!

Here there does not exist a tender touch
None to wipe the tears in my misty eyes
To share my joys of every loving day
None to really care should I live or die

I feel the wind crossing my ruddy cheeks,
But it did not speak. This is solitude.
Learned it is something I can do without,
As I replaced my scarf around my neck.

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