ON SITTING TO WRITE A POEM We are the inferior artists. Life has its own poetry. Leaves hang in the wind, just waiting out the weather, and sparrows cut tunnels through the night, finding cracks in a stony darkness. A lioness who slaughtered a deer, drags the carcass miles to feed her cubs and in the distance there are great mountain peaks which strain towards the stars like stiff unyielding fingers. NATURE Nature attacks us relentlessly. Leaves squirm as they die. They have no mind to wonder why. The stars seem small to me, but why they’re here is an unsolvable mystery. The moon appears in a threatening disguise, then reappears in funereal guise. A fierce wind suddenly blows, so I hurry home. I’ve wasted a hour, and still know nothing more than those dead leaves.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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