Benches
Cold as ice in the deep of a winter night
concrete and rebar make up the cozy bed
to lovers in search of a forgotten home.
Shining with the showers of a breezy March
metal as lace impossible for a brief rest
with only memories of a dying Valentine.
Into antique days of primal artists
as if the flesh of naked Adam and Eve alone
marbled by the weary stance at battle.
Knight for his lady under the heavy shade
in a fortress of century oaks he builds a shack
armor to silk tunic to travel to Avalon as one.
Now among the fields of red clay and fashioned greens
molded by the white safety of science, they melt
in the heat of August abandoned for the false safety of distance.
Resting upon the clouds of heaven ancestors ponder
lines of Sappho, Petrarch and William with a sigh
for the moments too ephemeral vanished into eternity.
What has happened to the gentle locus they sought
makeshift benches, masterpieces molded by fiery passions
it is time to leave the tower filled with the sorrows of winter.
Crimson blade
Must the blade be of crimson shades
For the lady to feel safe in the cold tower?
Should the steed be of noble white
To find his way home to the gentle squire’s?
Will the magicians of the deep forest
Stay put in their dens while waiting for their dwarves.
Why is the quest for adventure to the death
When one must remain to mend so many scars.
What will the maiden find beneath the armor
But a hollow chest abandoned of the lion’s heart!
Can the blade not keep its pristine spark
For the kingdom to be the safe heaven she sought?
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.