USELESS KNOWLEDGE (After Mei Yao Chen)
by George Freek
As wind rattles the branches,
and snow descends like ashes,
I make incoherent notes.
Like the freezing birds,
my life is descending from
one condition to a lower.
I was smothered by dreams
as insubstantial as smoke.
I believed some cunning god
said we’d live forever.
He lied. My wife died.
I watch a squirrel dash
from his denuded tree,
seeking food futilely
under a foot of snow.
Tears sting my eyes.
My bacon is burning.
My tea is turning cold.
I feel like a tree in a forest,
unheard, as it is falling.
IN THE GARDEN IS A MOCKINGBIRD (After Lu Yu)
by George Freek
Three evenings, with long
afternoons and a way
of forgetting words,
which, perhaps, should
never be heard.
But the thoughts, yes,
I remember those & a drink
called something pink.
At its bottom, tomorrow
stretched and curled
like a cat, toying on
a lazy afternoon.
The shades were blue,
and the roof pinged.
And when you
touched your ear-ring,
it rained. I think
the days were too long.
And there were
other people there.
Something was always wrong.
WINTER IS NOW UPON ME (After Su Tung Po)
by George Freek
The atmosphere is thick.
Things of the dark
crawl from their holes.
A dead leaf blows in the wind
like a petal from a rose.
The moon defies the sky.
But I will take no notice
of the moon. The stars
are distant mysteries.
They’re as dim
as the paper lanterns
in my unkempt garden.
They hang like ornaments
in a paper tree.
They are useless.
and they light no way for me.
“Where’s them-thar eatin’ irons?” I asked Lisa at her party.
“Over there,” she nodded. “Top drawer.”
Always the top drawer, I thought,
can they not survive elsewhere?
All laid in their open graves,
knives to the right, spoons to the left,
the forks as ever in the middle.
Teaspoons, of course, across the bottom,
dainty-silly, tomb-lid dogs at their feet.
Knives are the quick-clever things, or so they think,
erect prophets to be respected or feared,
carvers of truths, pleasure and, it has to be said, wounds.
Spoons; things of face-cupping and reflection,
bosoms, smooth-softness and love. Strength.
Feminine, if this is sayable still.
But the forks? And their smile of tines?
Well, they’re just getting on with it.
Aren’t we all?
Knives, forks, spoons.
Bridges
Stung useless by remorse,
life’s canyon edges
we feel our way along,
before us always
the sheer drop.
Why is it so hard to say sorry,
admit our wrong?
And the bridges we do build
we throw ourselves from.
“1 Lodge Moor
It remains unprocessed, forty years now and counting.
Took a lad, not twenty, to the spinal unit.
Been riding in the boot of a car for a laugh
on the way home from a dinner session
when it crashed
along with his life.
Painful as it is, I have to tell you
he cried all the miles there.
I watched.
Nothing I could say mattered.
We both knew.
The hospital on the edge of the hiking moors,
the ward a flat row of beds filled with the numbed,
watching from the mirrors angled above them.
Back in the Arms tonight his friends
raise their glasses.
Here’s to Billy! See you soon mucker!
Beers are on us when you get home!
I imagine the dark, silent ward,
the dim light from the nurse’s desk,
the ogre of her shadow on the wall behind
captured in the mirrors.
And the boy quietly weeping.
I continue to walk on his behalf when I remember to,
each and every step a respect.
What else can you do?
Tony’s Bio
After having what little education thrashed into me by nuns caned out of me by grammar school, I kept a promise to himself to begin writing when I finished doing tedious stuff like working full time. After a wander through psychiatric nursing, the Met Police and almost thirty years as a frontline paramedic the time seemed about right. I still work now and again in Primary Care somewhere in South Wales and live happily on the Gower indulging in writing, reading, talking, drinking beer and floating in the sea with my wife Elaine.
To date I have had three novels and a collection of short stories published.
My verse is, of course, shaped by my experience. Hopefully reader, you will find it insightful, sad, funny, truthful, profane and everything in between but always accessible.
Happy to answer any questions. Like the truth, I’m out there. Somewhere. Get in touch.
I saw the sign on the pole.
Missing sofa—
please call.
I envisioned some grand settee,
off
on a journey.
Its wooden legs
taking it cross town.
Had it been unhappy at home?
If they’d known,
would therapy have helped?
Perhaps a furniture intervention.
Psychologists would say,
re-upholstering
could bolster the ego.
It’s sad
when furniture
suddenly goes
astray.
Romance in Steel Sculpture by Daniel Napier
Welded Steel sculpture by Napier and painted by David Michel Jackson. The images of flowers with a female figure and home suggest romance.
Approximately 4′ x 4′ x 4″ Solid welded steel. Contact editors@artvilla.com for price and details.
