KNOWLEDGE IS HARD TO COME BY
Wind plays the leaves
like tambourines,
but the stars aren’t listening.
Clouds swim in the sky,
Like fish out of water,
but they’re only clouds,
and they depart
as the night’s illusions
quickly pass by.
Things I can’t see
often affect me.
It makes me feel
I’m more stupid than a tree.
I imagine such irrelevancy
will emerge as poetry.
Thinking like this
has become my deepest need.
As subterfuge,
it’s a way
of avoiding reality.
AFTERNOONS ON THE PATIO
Three evenings, with long
afternoons and a way
of forgetting words,
which probably
shouldn’t even be spoken.
The thoughts
I recall and a drink
called something pink.
At its bottom, tomorrow
stretched and curled
like a cat, toying
with a lazy afternoon.
The shadows were blue,
and the roof went ping,
when you touched
your earring.
Then it rained,
and the day became long,
and suddenly there were
other people here.
Something was always wrong.
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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