Poem Written in November (After Tu Fu)

I part my curtains and stare
at the distant moon.
Beyond the dead moon,
the stars are dying.
I lay alone in my bed.
Clouds huddle together,
speaking of nasty weather.
The blue grass at the river’s edge
is frozen. It will snow.
It won’t be long.
I’ve reached sixty.
Spring is still far off.
I watch leaves fall from the trees.
Life is a terminal disease.
I suddenly fall to my knees.

***

Night Thoughts (After Mei Yao Chen)

I can see nothing moving
on this dark night.
The sky is a black pit.
The moon is a thin slit.
There’s no one
to share wine with.
In a bare oak tree,
I stare at a heron’s nest.
The young have departed.
The nest is now empty.
I’m sixty-three.
I drink my wine alone.
When young I’d find
a symbol for a poem.
But herons
and that oak tree
mean nothing now to me.

George Freek’s poetry appears in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His collection Melancholia is published by Red Wolf Editions.