George Freek

Musings at Dusk (After Mei Yao Chen)

My wife is now dead.
Across the table, 
I look at an empty place.
The stars, billions of
them, have already
yielded to their fate.
I watch dead leaves
fall into the river to float 
I don’t know where.
I don’t care.
Can my wife’s ashes
exist there? I hope not.
It’s not a lovely spot. 
From his tree a raven’s
cry mocks me. Then
with the last light,
he disappears into this
compassionless night.

In Imitation of Li Shangyin

I watch a girl with golden hair
swing down the street,
but we will never meet.
I’m too old for that.
Still, the flesh stirs,
as a blossom stirs,
but the unfolding is too long.
I stare at the trees,
as they lose their leaves.
It is simply nature,
not some fatal disease.
There are many things
I’ve forgotten.
I look at the apples falling
from my ancient tree.
The aroma is sweet,
but the apples are rotten.

George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews.