Leaf on a River, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Leaf on a RiverRiver Study, J Laurence Hart (n.d.)

Leaf on a River

My heart as a leaf flows with the river
No port of call is currently listed
Nor stopping to be a solemn griever
River doesn’t yield, heart cannot be bided

Know not where or when the river will end
Heart was once green now a sullen yellow
Never made a choice of lover or friend
Can’t remember ever being a foe

This water journey thought to be unique
Soon found that countless millions are alike
With nothing of great importance to speak
Nor a vein of richness ever to strike

Who determines what someone’s life is worth
Should we be celebrating any birth

 

Plow, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

PlowThe Last Furrow, Henry Herbert La Thangue (1895)

Plow

Sun light ricochets off the farmer’s vest,
On this chilly and windy mid-March morn.
Snorting horses pulling plow, displaying their zest.
Blue steel share cutting deep, sod to be torn.

The soil released its pent up energy,
As billows of silk mist took to the sky,
While birds came as an invading army,
Devouring their plump prey from where they lie.

Day now done, horses released at last furrow,
For them will be a rest day tomorrow.
Rest will be needed to pull the harrow,
Soon the field be readied for corn to grow.

Life is not what you do but how you feel,
On this little farm there exists great zeal.

Barn, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

BarnAllensville Hay Press Barn, Switzerland County, Gwen Gutwein (2008)

Barn

Its many boards of gray are on display.
Their opened grain bear the signs of aged pain.
From their perfect centers did move away.
Long gone are the days of its mighty reign.

Shows no mighty power to right itself,
Relying totally on my pity.
Knowing each board makes for a proper shelf,
Adding many dollars to my kitty.

Once inside I could feel its unique scent,
Wondering where all those memories went.
Where I day upon day happily spent,
Lingering has changed my early intent.

I’d better go and fetch the proper crane,
As this is where this creature shall remain.

 

Glass Door, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

windowImage manipulated by author

Glass Door

With bucket of water, squeegee and rag,
Performing menial chore I abhor.
For it will always make my spirits sag,
Daily cleaning of the stately glass door.

Fully covered with finger prints galore.
Strange as it be that it has no push bar,
Makes me hate this nasty door even more.
Without a key lock makes it more bizarre.

Limitless numbers who come but can’t pass.
Is this door’s only purpose to harass?
Or clearly an obstruction made of glass,
To ensure creation of an impasse?

Now clearly understanding took an axe,
Gave the mighty wall of glass forty whacks.

 

 

 

 

The Love Missive, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

z-Carl Herpfer The love missive 1875The Love Missive, Carl Herpfer (1875)

The Love Missive, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

Can I your lover and provider be?
Giving one at the expense of other
To both equally cannot do ably
But for you efforts willing to alter

Final decision being of your choice
All these trappings shall we readily leave
It is now I must clearly hear your voice
Must be the one which you truly believe

It is continued silence gives me pause
That it is I, the decision will make
Shall be given rightfully on just cause
As of now there’s to be a total break

Go to waiting arms of whose letters sent
To me you are not required to repent

 

Pygmalion and Galatea, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

z-Jean Leon GeromePygmalion and GalateaJean Leon Gerome, Pygmalion and Galatea (1890)

Pygmalion and Galatea

Marble before him was without error
Hammer and chisel moved with affection
Carefully attending the stone’s cipher
Soon to be his woman of perfection

Pygmalion prayed to Aphrodite
His desire was not for golden treasure
Gave overt sign she heard his earnest plea
He soon felt a sense of warming pleasure

Embracing his statute its warmth he felt
Confused wondering if could be real
Touching her satin skin he quickly knelt
Before him stood a majestic angel

Praised Aphrodite for changing his life
Pygmalion happy with his new wife

 

The Poor Fisherman, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

Chavabbes Pierre_puvis_de_chavannes_il_povero_pescatore_1881.jpgCIl Povero Pescatore, Puvis de Chavannes (1881)

The Poor Fishman, Robert A Sieczkiewicz

The river so flat and still like dried paint.
Not sure if what I say is a complaint.
Father you know that I am not a saint,
But help the fish and me to reacquaint.

Today I say that my day shall be long,
Not returning here until the next dawn.
Yet during those hours I will sing your song,
Giving praise and praying that I stay strong.

The fish I pray for not only for me.
I think of my poor weakened family,
Healthy and strong I pray them all to be,
For it is in them my whole life I see.

To Saint Peter the fish You did help send,
It is on Your will that our lives depend.