George Freek





POEM ON A THEME BY HOUSEMAN

I stare at the quiet street.
The evening is peaceful.
Half drunk, I sway
in the doorway. The moon
lights the twilight sky.
Do I see the stars grin,
or is it the condition Iím in?
Iíve lived my life.
Thereís nothing I miss.
Thereís nothing Iíd
go back for. And yet,
I cling for support,
very tightly,
to this half-open door.







OUT OF THE CRADLE, ROCKINGÖ

Iím a creature of shameful habits.
I gaze at the moon and dither
like Nero with his fiddle.
My mind is like a sea
with nothing in the middle.

Peacocks make me nervous.
Their autumnal screams are
unnerving. I wait for a different
season, but Iím like a monk
who is undeserving.

Finally the snow is falling.
Time like thunder rolls
down the hills. ĎDesire
is the birth of death.í
I think that the moon is calling.






MY DOCTOR ADVISES ME TO STOP DRINKING (After MEI YAO CHEN)

As the sun descends,
the memory of dead friends
suddenly overwhelms me.
In my melancholy mood
Iím getting sentimental.
A carpet of green grass
stretches to meet the sky.
But itís trampled under the feet
of indifferent passers-by.
The afternoon wine is wearing off.
At seventy-three itís one way
to get through another day.
Spring will soon end.
I know it will come again.
But what is that to me?
At twenty-one I thought
much more of it,
than I do at seventy-three.




Copyright  ©  2014 George Freek

 
George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Illinois. His poems have recently appeared in The Missins Slate; Bone Parade; Hamilton Stone Review; The Burning Word; The Poydras Review; The Oklahoma Review, and The Empirical Review. His plays are published by Havescripts, Inc;Playscripts, Inc; and Lazy Bee Scripts (UK).