Poetry by George Freek
THE NIGHT MUSIC As I sit by the river clouds soft as pillows smother the moonlight. All night I hear waves beat the shore, as if it were a door that refuses to open. Life is unclear. I’m nearing sixty, and I still have no idea from year to year who I am, or why I’m here. WINTER AT WEST LAKE The years pile up like the snow on the roof. As I look out my back door, the moon seems trapped like an insect in a web of branches. They say that Li Po tried to express the sound of a rising moon in words. I don’t care. I drink wine, and listen to a dove calling softly to his unheeding mate. Is there a meaning for me? The dove in frustration abandons his tree. What will be, will be. A MOON POEM Fall is as cold as the moon. Angry clouds tell me snow is coming. It will be no surprise. Monks, seeking comfort, mutter to themselves incantations in their selfless occupations. In their trance-like silence, they ignore the signs in the sky. I watch the moon as it dies. Where does heaven lie? I stare at that sky. I wonder if life is a terrible mistake for which one must apologise, but my answer would be a foolish lie.
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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