by George Freek
ENTRAILS (After Li Po)
A sickle moon cuts into my dream
like a knife slices through water.
In the bathroom mirror
I see an ugly face.
Outside the window,
trees are bent like old men,
huddled round a circle of stones,
trying to warm fleshless bones.
They don’t look at each other.
The lake’s waves,
crashing against stones,
are like the cries of the dead,
calling from their graves.
From the lake’s pavilion,
the voices are faraway.
Are they happy or sad?
I don’t care. I close my door.
Languid anemone line
the barren waste of the shore.
INTO THE STORM (After Liu Yong)
The wind whistles through
the trees like a piccolo.
For a brief moment,
the music is sweet.
But when it disappears,
where does it drift to?
In the darkening sky,
a fierceness grows.
Clouds rush by,
as quickly as life passes.
Time means nothing
to the dead. They lie
in their dreamless beds.
I’m fifty-five.
I ask God for a reason
I’m still alive.
There’s no answer,
but as the storm descends,
it too will end.
About the author:
George Freek is a poet/playwright from Illinois. His plays are published by Playscripts; Blue Moon Plays and Off The Wall Plays. His poems appear in numerous poetry Journals and Reviews. His poem “Written At Blue Lake” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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