THROUGH A NARROW LENS
The stars wander in the sky,
like lost children,
not sure where to go,
as time flows like water,
not to the sea, but to infinity.
That has nothing to do with me.
I inch my way towards death,
like a blind mole.
I wonder if I’m observed
by God for his pleasure,
the way I find pleasure,
observing animals in nature.
Or else no God is there.
But I don’t think God
worries too much about me.
I’m part of this universe,
an insignificant part,
that will soon vanish,
and thinking of that
is what ends my brief reverie.
THE MOON IN HER NATURE
Swallows rise in the air,
circling here and there
drifting off to somewhere.
I don’t know where,
and then they disappear,
like things that were never here.
Falling onto the dying leaves,
rain whispers a sad song.
Do leaves sigh before they die?
But no. They’re only leaves,
as the moon is only a stone,
and it can give
neither hope nor mercy.
It’s only there for its beauty.
When I gaze at it,
on a thoughtful night,
it’s not even capable
of returning that look to me,
so if I were wise,
I would simply let it be.
ME AND MY CAT
My cat crouches in tulips,
watching a robin eye a worm,
but as a wind comes up,
as fast as a tuba blast,
my cat loses his chance.
A starling steals the worm,
and so the robin
gets nothing in his turn.
My cat turns away
with disconsolate eyes.
He suddenly senses
what it means to grow old.
As the night arrives
in creaking shoes,
I stare at my garden,
full of dying flowers,
and crumbling stones.
That is where my aging cat
finds the comfort of repose.
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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