‘Why I don’t sleep well’ and other poems

By: George Freek

Photo by Kristin Vogt on Pexels.com


The moon is the head of an axe,
splitting the darkness in pieces.
Leaves fall in the night.
dying without a fight.
They die so gently,
it almost seems right.
When I look at the stars,
they are very small,
twinkling like bells
on the cap of a fool.
Life is difficult to grasp.
But it doesn’t last.
A last leaf withers on a branch.
And when I reach for it,
it crumbles in my hand.



I have many shameful habits,
of which I won’t speak.
When I seek solace, the moon
is a willing priest.
It demands no penance.
It continues its sleep.
As time accumulates,
I realize too late
I wasted my life.
At my funeral, the stars
will be my mourners.
They’ll look on in silence,
and they’ll shed no tears.


IN MEMORIAM (After Mei Yao Chen)

Standing by the grave
of my wife, it’s only here,
when I’m near death,
that I appreciate life.
Her grave is nestled
in the shadow of a tree,
a shadow which
will soon cover me.
What must be, will be.
Memories are all I have.
They are painful.
Staring at her grave,
I ask myself
what use is poetry?

Categories: Poetry

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