George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
DECEMBER IS A CRUEL MONTH (After Tu Fu)
In a nearby tree, a cardinal looks for food. It’s cold, but he still has to eat. I can’t walk in the woods, the trail is full of snow. The creek is also iced over. I watch the sun sink, as if it were lost, looking for a place to hide. I drink a glass of wine. I’ve written what I could. There’s nothing to say. I look out my window. I feel this snow is here to stay
I WATCH THE BIRDS (After Li Shagyin)
In the trees starlings chatter. Their behavior is noisy and erratic. Among birds, they’re nasty fanatics. Over their heads, the moon falls like a feather onto a frozen bed. They pay it no heed. They’re like we are, concerned with personal needs. Are their thoughts also full of mindless chatter? And like young lovers, do they make poems, which pretend to glean meaning from such unpromising matter?
EPITAPH (After Liu Yong)
I remember the woods we discovered and the birds we’d never seen before. Sunlight drifted through the trees like silken ash, then settled where a few blue flowers grew. We saw life then through a suddenly opened door. Yesterday I walked there. Nothing of the past remains, except a tree or two. The birds have long left the broken branches of that secret lair, and though they survive, they’re clearly dying. But maybe they always were.