Musings at Dusk

My wife is now dead.
Is there somewhere
the dead reside? Other than
a hole in the ground?
It’s a cold empty place,
bereft of love or grace.
The stars in the distant sky,
patiently wait, as they
burn to nothingness,
for their predetermined fate.
I feel foolish, that’s all,
and as dead leaves fall
into the flowing river,
a raven’s shrill laughter
mocks my musings,
and with the dying light,
he indifferently flies off,
into this eternal night.

***

Useless Regrets

Clouds black as death
spread across the sky.
I can barely see the lake,
as hail bounces off the roof.
A brutal wind rips leaves
from the trees. I’m not
drunk enough to sleep,
but too drunk to stay in bed.
A ferocious wind
like a specter from my past,
sweeps from the shore,
and hits me like a shower
of molten lead.
The sun is as absent,
as if he were bored,
or telling me I’m ignored.
It doesn’t help to put
a cold compress on
my miserable head.
This is where,
friends tell me,
my wasted life has led.

***

In Imitation of the Chinese Poet Li Shangyin

I watch a girl with golden hair
swing down the street,
her pretty nose in the air,
but we’ll never meet.
I’m too old for that.
Still, the flesh will stir,
as a blossom stirs,
but the unfolding is too long.
I stare at the trees,
as they lose their leaves.
It’s nature,
and it’s a fatal disease.
As if in heavy boots,
winter will soon stomp in.
I see the apples falling
from my trees.
The aroma is sweet.
I haven’t forgotten it,
but the apples are now rotten.

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.