By George Freek
NIGHT IN THE SUBURBS
As the night deepens,
the sky seems like a hole
that stars fall into.
Branches suddenly wave
like spastic arms,
as a wind from nowhere
sets them in motion,
and life quickly passes by,
leaving no time
to even wonder why.
The earth continues spinning,
like an alarm clock
with malfunctioning hands.
My wife is dead.
My friends are old.
Why did I live?
I have no idea.
I was never told.
EVENINGS AT SILVER MOON LAKE
The day stretches before me
like the water in the lake,
flat and dull.
I sit thoughtlessly,
as if riding the waves
like a somnolent gull.
A sudden breeze passes by,
like the rough touch
of an invisible hand,
but it’s quickly gone.
Like bygone days,
it didn’t last long.
As waves beat the shore
like the erratic notes
of a mad composer,
I’ve finally had enough,
and I close my door.
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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