The Seamstress, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Gisela Josef–The_Seamstress (1897)The Seamstress, Josef Gisela (1897)

The Seamstress, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

A seamstress fingers are made for action.
Parts she joins together to be just one.
The wedding dress she sews will soon be done.
But have feelings of the bride come undone?

Too young to understand what her life be,
Love glows now, but can change to misery.
So concerned with turning from me to we,
Then the need to extend family tree.

She asks, what does it take to be a bride?
Need to feel like a real wife inside,
To walk with husband, both in even stride,
Making sure any gap does not get wide.

Take each precious day, sew them together,
Being sure love withstands any weather.

Spring in Torbole, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Monsted Peder Mork - Saint Andrea's Church in Torbole (1909)Saint Andrea’s Church in Torbole, Peder Mork Monsted (1909)

Spring in Torbole, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Soon I will be harking to the church’s bell,
Giving me time to sit here for a spell.
To give Him thanks that it is here I dwell,
And pray I forever be in this dell.

It is spring so now I smell the good earth,
Which with the sun shall bring about new birth.
In our many fields there shall be no dearth,
From those hours worked before taking our berth.

If there be any doubt in what I say,
And of given reason for which I pray,
Suggest you linger long, extend your stay,
For sure you will not choose to move away.

Listen to the sweet sound, it calls all now,
To thank Him who this place to us endow.

 

Spring, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Voscher Leopold_Heinrich_Vöscher_Gebirgslandschaft_mit_GletscherGebirgslandschaft mit Gletscher, Leopold Heinrich Vöscher (n.d.)

Spring, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Suddenly it’s spring, a time of rebirth.
Sun tells mountains to set the waters free,
Then green is the new color of the earth,
In fields and forests ever so densely.

As a sleeping bear comes forth from its den,
So has my soul at winter’s bitter end.
Feels so lightened now that it is open,
To get out as there are fences to mend.

Gather together with friends once again,
Each lending a hand whenever they can.
There’s real joy in all hearts for certain,
Looking around we see empyrean.

In our hearts spring is valued more than gold,
With happiness its glory is extolled.

Working the Quay, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

van Gogh - unloading sand at the quayQuay with Men Unloading Sand Barges, Vincent van Gogh (1888)

Working the Quay, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

End of another laborious day.
Work was exhorted in a heinous way.
A wage of a slave was their daily pay.
Life is never easy working the quay.

With calloused hands and backs nearly broken,
Spirits are targeted to be beaten,
To turn each victim into a cretin.
Many praying their death to be hasten.

Why for some must life be a living hell?
Why must many carry another’s yoke?
Is it so they can live extremely well?
Or is the social system that is broke?

To take advantage of a person’s plight,
Is worse than the thief who comes in the night.

Stone, a poem by Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Aagaard Carl_Frederik_Aagaard - Wildblumen_vor_einem_Getreidefeld

Wildflowers in front of a Cornfield, Carl Frederik Aagaard (n. d.)

Stone, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Stone I am, here forever will remain.
No wind can blow me to another place,
Like your ripened seeds, with the least of strain,
So from earth your beauty will not efface.

To be you or any other flower,
Creating generations easily.
Here standing as if a giant anchor,
Never to speak of dearest progeny.

My actual tenure here you’ll never know,
Bearing the summer heat and winter cold,
And the autumn watching seeds you do sow,
But it’s the spring when my worth is told.

From the sun I shall collect needed heat,
Protecting your progeny’s tiny feet.

 

Haymaking, a poem by Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Dupre Julien La Fenaison (1884)La Fenaison, Julien Dupre (1884)

Haymaking, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Smelling the new mowed hay forever stays,
In your heart and your soul in many ways.
Body fatigued from the ever long days,
Dissolved by beautiful songs of great praise.

Her joyous voice that of a meadow lark,
Shall sing her praise until it’s nearly dark,
For such a bounty from earth’s matriarch,
Who has shown to be her greatest bulwark.

Looking around at the work that’s been done,
The land given its hay is now barren.
This season shall see no further action,
The wonder of it all makes me chasten.

To be connected to this hallowed earth,
Brings with every season thankful rebirth.

 

The Bridge, a poem by Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Hall, Walter J., 1866-1947; Old Blackford Bridge, Bury

Old Blackford Bridge, Walter Hall (1910)

The Bridge, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Built of steel and concrete was quite a feat.
They came from afar to see this marvel.
Designed so others could easily meet.
Reducing many miles of their travel.

Soon subtle difference became aware,
Not easily seen from opposite shore.
Upon the bridge many would stop to stare,
With looks so ugly they could start a war.

Little by little traffic did decrease,
Finally only the winds dared to cross.
Blockades now in place guarded by police,
The peace bridge is now home to grass and moss.

What is it that keeps so many apart?
Sages are yet unable to impart.