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

 

Snow Scene, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Henry Alexander, Snow Scene through a Winter Window, 1870.Snow Scene through a Winter Window, Henry Alexander (1870)

Snow Scene

Under blankets, another frigid night
Could feel aching chill in my weary bones
Feared what horror there would be my first sight
Feeling confident would be many moans

Looking through button holes, saw the bright white
Tired of the piling up of winter’s snow
This freezing matter is no longer trite
Miserable stuff really must go

A death row prisoner is what I am
Give me my last meal and be done with it
Never have been fan of winter’s program
Ever bored of doing nothing but sit

For the joy of spring I hunger and thirst
Can I survive, it’s but November first

 

Windy Knob, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Windy KnobWindy Knob, Greg Sieczkiewicz (2018)

Windy Knob, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Night is now being chased into the past
No signs of hurry to get underway
Tis a time I wish would forever last
Calmness allows my mind to slowly stray

Pure is my vision of new fallen snow
Landscape of white uncomplicated sight
At ease staring at its unsullied glow
Providing no reason to be contrite

Reality tells this moment won’t last
The sun shall slip higher into the sky
Pairs of eyes of many will be amassed
With their loving kisses they shall not shy

Life at Windy Knob is sight to behold
With children untrammeled out in the cold