George Freek – 2 POEMS


I dream of a girl with golden hair,

but I’m too old for that.

My fingers are as cold

as the morning dew.

Yes, the flesh stirs

as a blossom stirs,

but the unfolding is too long,

or it’s like song, but the melody

is wrong. My blood

will not move uphill,

do what I will.

Strange noises come from

my throat. I stare at trees,

shedding their leaves.

My brain turns like a needle

in a groove. Once, I knew

many things I’ve now

forgotten. I stare at

the empty trees.

But their apples are rotten.

* * * * *


I know nothing of swallows,

and they know nothing of me.

But we’ve made a kind of pact

like that of leaf and tree.

Are their dippings and circlings

somehow symbolic of destiny?

I look at the moon, nearly

hidden by clouds. Its splintered

light falls on cold walls,

giving cold comfort on a cold night.

And the night is an imponderable.

It’s a dead leaf in my mind.

It’s a fragment of an unreal place,

existing in an unreal time.

* * * * *

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in ‘The Missing Slate’; ‘Bone Parade’; ‘Hamilton Stone Review’; ‘The Oklahoma Review’; ‘The Poydras Review’; Structo Magazine’; and ‘The Empirical Review’.

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