ANOTHER AUTUMN DIES
The sun is an orange,
fallen from an invisible tree,
as an avalanche of leaves
also falls to the earth.
I hope when it comes,
Death will come so easily.
Leaves feel no pain,
but do they sigh when they die,
gazing at the ground,
which will be their final home.
No one grieves,
and time means nothing to leaves,
or to the sun or the stars,
but it means a lot to me.
A sudden wind blows clouds
toward the moon, as distant
as our dreams are from June,
and where is September?
It was swept aside,
even as I was writing this poem,
so I missed it,
but it departed far too soon.
AT WEST LAKE CEMETERY
The sky observes the graves
on this lonely hillside,
without concern,
as if they were metaphors
in an obscure poem.
The bodies buried there
are now harmless.
Were they always that,
and how much did they suffer,
before they arrived here?
Death reduces our lives
to insignificance,
just as our emotions,
have no effect on what will be,
and if I offered a prayer
for these dead souls
it would only
mean something to me.
SPRING SONATA FOR THE DEAD
Flowers rise from the earth,
and buds appear on boughs.
Cicadas can be heard,
though where they’re at,
no one ever seems to know.
Along the riverbank,
the ice has broken,
and the sun is shining,
in honor of this new season.
Squirrels frolic in the grass
happy to be alive.
When I place fresh flowers,
on your grave,
I know the world will survive
and life will still thrive,
but I feel no joy.
You are no longer alive.
And the stars are blind,
when they look down,
as another dark night arrives.
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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