THROUGH A FOG (After Su Tung Po) Wind rustles the leaves with rough fingers, then blows away. Silence is a muted scream. Clouds look at nothing when they pass by like men who no longer ask why. The moon, once so bright, is a dim light in that immense sea, while I search for things that are not to be. AFTER THE FALL (After Mei Yao Chen) Dying flowers lie like corpses with discolored heads. If my wife were here, She’d try to revive them, but she’s also dead. Night holds me in its arms, as if I were a child, abandoned in a desolate spot. Stars crawl across the sky like bugs wandering lost and blind, over an infinite rug, Life is unkind. Life will never be how it was, but I think the way it was was only in my mind WISDOM (After Tu Fu) I stare at my unmade bed. Outside, a chilling breeze rustles the dead leaves, as if they were feathers. The moon is a ball of lead. I gaze at distant stars, lost in the infinite sky, as if they had nowhere to abide. A torn shirt, hanging from a tree, waves in the breeze, like an abandoned flag, now a tattered rag. I feel the approaching cold. I watch traffic pass me by, as if I were a stone. I’ve learned what it means to become old.
George Freek’s poem “Written At Blue Lake” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poem “Enigmatic Variations” was also recently nominated for Best of the Net. His collection “Melancholia” is published by Red Wolf Editions.
