A SILLY MOON POEM
Fall is as cold as the moon.
In nature’s way, clouds
say snow is coming.
Monks, seeking comfort,
mutter incantations
in their self-absorbed occupations,
but in their trance,
they ignore the signs
in the sky. I watch the moon
as it begins to die.
I wonder where
does heaven lie?
Monks pray for signs.
Drunk, I sing to the moon.
Like an unhappy monk,
I get the same reply.
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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