Poetry by George Freek

UNCERTAINTY

Night clings to the branches
as if it were a sodden blanket.
The moon is a dead eye,
staring from its distant grave,
as stars enact mysterious ceremonies
like bats in a cave.
My heart is as cold as a stone.
With nowhere to go,
a crow hurries away.
He seeks he knows not what,
but he doesn’t want to stay.


BREVITY

The sky looks down at me
with unseeing eyes.
Dead leaves fall into the river,
and flow with the stream,
I don’t know where.
I’ll never go there.
The moon’s rays are blades,
slicing the clouds in tatters.
Tonight, I drink to dead friends,
and forget my wasted life,
but I think it’s too late 
to make amends. 

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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