Poetry by George Freek
Storm at Sea on a Moonlit Night, Painting by Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900)
AT THIS MOMENT
The moon is a frightened bride,
with nowhere to hide.
The wind is a wolverine.
Wandering lost in a fog.
My boat shakes like a leaf of tea,
as I drift like a sodden log.
I look for a crack in the sky,
Where light can shine,
but rain falls like razors.
At such a time,
I should think of my wife,
how worried she’ll be,
but in moments like this,
afraid for my life,
I can only think of me.
IN NOVEMBER
Dead leaves fall from trees
with a cancer-like disease.
Clouds drift by
in their ordinary way,
moving too quickly to say
what they might say.
The river still flows somewhere.
I don’t know where.
I’ll never go there.
Time is only important
when you need to say goodbye.
It will soon be snowing.
Like people, winters come and go.
The snow begins falling.
I stare at my unmade bed.
It’s now been a year,
that you’ve been dead.
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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