By: George Freek

A MATTER OF PRIORITIES (After Mei Yao Chen)

Things that once mattered
Now matter to me
less than a bowl of rice.
Stars like insects
spin across the sky,
but do they even exist?
Sparrows hop from branch
to branch with a purpose.
They don’t care
if the stars are there.
They’re looking for
something to eat.
In a rain-soaked street,
people rush by,
terribly concerned
with the mud on their feet.

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A POEM OF MOURNING (After Su Tung Po)

the moon rises without pity.
It rises indifferently.
When I’m no longer here,
it will rise again,
for billions of years
oblivious to human fears.
A dead leaf,
that shivers violently,
then falls so quietly,
means nothing to me.
You are dead. Your ashes
are in the ground,
and I’m now alone.
Nothing more can be said.

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IN MEMORIAM (After Mei Yao Chen)

As the night begins,
a dismal line of people crawls
in slow procession
along the darkening street.
Stars throb like blue guitars
playing somber hymns
in other worldly rhythms.
I draw my shades.
I turn off my light.
As darkness approaches,
I have only this to write.
It is getting very late.
A distant moon,
barely shining
is a silent reminder of our fate.