The Outer Shore
Like a spider in a web,
the moon is hidden
behind a mass of clouds.
Does it understand
the concept of waiting?
Of course not. It’s simply
lying there, like a rock
in a stone quarry.
It drifts in space, pulling
metaphysical questions
in its mindless wake.
I wonder what immortality is.
I get no clue,
as those clouds pass by.
Things happen for reasons,
which often seem
unreasonable to me.
Leaves fall
with unconscious grace,
spiraling as if in a trance,
like sand in an hourglass.
They provoke questions
with no answers for me.
I waste my years
chasing phantoms,
as shallow as the bed
of a dried up sea.
My life is destroyed by superficiality.
Relativity
Spring has arrived,
and the weather is mild.
The flowers bloom,
like the bride and groom
in a classical ballet,
at the moment when
horns come into play.
Yes, everything is gay,
but my body is wracked
by a cough that comes
from the depths of the sea.
Spring seems wonderful
to some. It looks
very different to me.
Nature has one absolute,
and it lurks behind
what often appears
exuberant and carefree.
In nature nothing
is what it ought to be.
The cry of a peacock
is from the dream
of a madman’s fantasy.
If I Could Speak To Clouds
Arching branches shelter
my roses from a gentle wind.
Their perfume draws bees
and makes them mellow.
The air is perfumed lace,
as I wander in my garden.
The blossoms are entrancing.
I become sentimental,
but night falls like a curtain
at the end of a boring play,
and the moon, hiding
behind those changing clouds,
revives dead memories.
Before I enter my bed,
my mood disintegrates.
My wife should make tea,
but she can do nothing.
For a month she’s been dead.
About the Author
George Freek’s poetry has appeared in various reputed literary publications including The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
