Threnody For a Dream (After Su Tung Po)
My yard fills with snow.
The night is morose,
Wind roams the street
like a hungry swine,
searching for scraps to eat.
I watch it through my window.
I watch it like someone
I don’t know. My friends
are all dead. Nothing
remains of the life they led.
The wine I drank
I’ll drink again. But it
won’t be the same.
When life comes unstrung,
it makes no sense,
to be lost in reminiscence.
I look at my unmade bed.
I look at barren trees.
I look at the stars instead.
Their light should
soothe my brain,
but they’re so far away,
and they’re already dead.
Debris (After Li Po)
In an abandoned field,
wild flowers grow.
A feral cat romps gleefully
in the sweet grass.
When winter takes us
by surprise. Will he be a
rotting carcass, or will
he manage to survive?
A deserted shoe,
a scrap of torn paper,
disintegrate amid those
blooming flowers.
Was it part of a lover’s
poem, written in joy
or perhaps despair,
to someone I’ll never know.
It makes me sad.
It disturbs my walk.
I look away and hurry home.
Full Circle (After Tu Fu)
Night encloses the pines,
and chokes the moonlight.
Nothingness stares at me,
and won’t pass from my sight.
I dump my pipe ash
into my cup of tea.
A star gives a sliver of light.
It’s not light enough for me.
It’s the dead of winter.
Pines bend in the wind.
I almost hear them groan.
The moon is a razor,
made of sharpened stone.
A dog howls in the dark,
unable to find a bone.
I think someone
will die tonight.
And he will die alone.
George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Illinois. His plays are published by Playscripts; Blue Moon Plays; and Off The Wall Plays. His poem "Written At Blue Lake" was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
My yard fills with snow.
The night is morose,
Wind roams the street
like a hungry swine,
searching for scraps to eat.
I watch it through my window.
I watch it like someone
I don’t know. My friends
are all dead. Nothing
remains of the life they led.
The wine I drank
I’ll drink again. But it
won’t be the same.
When life comes unstrung,
it makes no sense,
to be lost in reminiscence.
I look at my unmade bed.
I look at barren trees.
I look at the stars instead.
Their light should
soothe my brain,
but they’re so far away,
and they’re already dead.
Debris (After Li Po)
In an abandoned field,
wild flowers grow.
A feral cat romps gleefully
in the sweet grass.
When winter takes us
by surprise. Will he be a
rotting carcass, or will
he manage to survive?
A deserted shoe,
a scrap of torn paper,
disintegrate amid those
blooming flowers.
Was it part of a lover’s
poem, written in joy
or perhaps despair,
to someone I’ll never know.
It makes me sad.
It disturbs my walk.
I look away and hurry home.
Full Circle (After Tu Fu)
Night encloses the pines,
and chokes the moonlight.
Nothingness stares at me,
and won’t pass from my sight.
I dump my pipe ash
into my cup of tea.
A star gives a sliver of light.
It’s not light enough for me.
It’s the dead of winter.
Pines bend in the wind.
I almost hear them groan.
The moon is a razor,
made of sharpened stone.
A dog howls in the dark,
unable to find a bone.
I think someone
will die tonight.
And he will die alone.
George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Illinois. His plays are published by Playscripts; Blue Moon Plays; and Off The Wall Plays. His poem "Written At Blue Lake" was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.