Solitude (After Li Shangyin)
I walk a path in the woods
which is rarely traveled.
Moss like sinews
hangs from dying branches.
Whose long forgotten bones
are buried under my feet?
Is my death foretold in the stars?
I stare at the sky. The moon
is a frozen frown.
As a flock of crows
takes flight, I’m alone.
The stars are now lost to me,
but like leaves that flash
and burn they’re there
by the billions.
Is some God also there?
I holler into the night.
I wait and listen,
but only my echo returns.
I Visit My Gravesite (After Mei Yao Chen)
Dead leaves shudder
as they descend
to an inglorious end.
A thick moss hangs like
fog from dead trees.
A hawk circles the sky.
I turn away, as he
stares into my eyes.
Is he waiting for me?
My life’s work is done.
If I could, I would pray,
but I have nothing to say.
Later I walk to the graveyard,
to observe the place
beside my wife,
where my ashes will stay.
Ducks On the River (After Ou Yang Hsiu)
I stare out my window.
Ducks sport on the river.
Are they aware of their luck?
But that’s foolish.
Their joy won’t last.
Storm clouds loom in the west.
Snow will kill their fun.
Their days are
also difficult ones.
Soon they’ll quack angrily,
complaining as I am.
They’ll rail at the storm.
Ducks as well as men,
will have their say,
but the things
we complain about
won’t go away.
George Freek's poetry has appeared in numerous journals and reviews, most recently The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish, and Torrid Literature.
I walk a path in the woods
which is rarely traveled.
Moss like sinews
hangs from dying branches.
Whose long forgotten bones
are buried under my feet?
Is my death foretold in the stars?
I stare at the sky. The moon
is a frozen frown.
As a flock of crows
takes flight, I’m alone.
The stars are now lost to me,
but like leaves that flash
and burn they’re there
by the billions.
Is some God also there?
I holler into the night.
I wait and listen,
but only my echo returns.
I Visit My Gravesite (After Mei Yao Chen)
Dead leaves shudder
as they descend
to an inglorious end.
A thick moss hangs like
fog from dead trees.
A hawk circles the sky.
I turn away, as he
stares into my eyes.
Is he waiting for me?
My life’s work is done.
If I could, I would pray,
but I have nothing to say.
Later I walk to the graveyard,
to observe the place
beside my wife,
where my ashes will stay.
Ducks On the River (After Ou Yang Hsiu)
I stare out my window.
Ducks sport on the river.
Are they aware of their luck?
But that’s foolish.
Their joy won’t last.
Storm clouds loom in the west.
Snow will kill their fun.
Their days are
also difficult ones.
Soon they’ll quack angrily,
complaining as I am.
They’ll rail at the storm.
Ducks as well as men,
will have their say,
but the things
we complain about
won’t go away.
George Freek's poetry has appeared in numerous journals and reviews, most recently The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish, and Torrid Literature.