Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
At the speed of dreams
At the speed of light the message is clear
it needs not be seen of the most common eye
for the words to speak loudly through ages
without syllables, characters, periods or commas.
At the speed of sound, we hear naught in the storm
thunder shocks the waves of the music sheet
trembling the gentle voice dares not utter
its life, so young behind the clouds of eternity.
At the speed of days, we journey relentless;
stars, planets, comets continue their passionate chase
reflected in the puzzle of memories newly born
onto souls, canvases given to posterity.
At the speed of dreams, the dialogue is solid
realities struggle to assert a hopeless meaning
unable to access those certain realms beyond;
their history is a mountain built on silence.
At the speed of you, fleeting in the precious instant
disappearing rainbow of everything you are
the symphony is composed in this prodigious ballet;
time stands still under a new life of crystal light.
Berries and Pearl
The steps taken, each day, renewed,
necessary for the hours to be pure,
bearing a message, holding the treat,
seeking the same old recompense.
The warm welcome of old Arabica,
perhaps a message from cyberspace,
maybe yet just a word in passing,
meaning nothing, nothing more than
a greet, timid of the thought deeper.
The silhouette faces the glass to freedom,
he must not startle, has to announce
his soft coming, bearing truth on his hand.
It is first day, dawn so fresh, clear,
she deserves a kind reverence;
the salute of Lancelot to Guinevere,
she turns now and as always smile.
What does she know, how does she feel?
The plump, juicy berry within her reach,
a smell of cocoa permeates the room,
a gift to the senses so she may be
alone soon, her pearls touch the flesh,
tender, sweet, revealed to her soul,
noble, royal, at peace again.
Going Forward
The universe has an odd way to prepare you for
the next step
some sort of deep oblivion.
A body shrivels into lines in the ground which
they call wrinkles
to cover an aging flesh to vultures.
A mind everyday waves goodbyes to old flames
memories fade
they say perhaps to prevent senility.
Clouds of snow, ice and blinding reflections tickle
thinning membranes
and senses awaken to sensations yet unknown.
He touches the snows atop the bald head of Mt Blanc
melting away
fingers on fire tremble engraving their life upon the Earth.
Slowly slipping along the sliding curve of the mount
she follows
avid with the years to join in saintly oblivion.
It is a game of children on the playing ground
complete with
giggles, cries, falls, scraped egos, alone in the field.
Now silent, their essence still remains, their frames
sublimed at last
we may close those eyes, and feel their presence again.
Rain in August
The sun loves a rainy day in August
When he too can slumber in a little longer
I share in the scent of the last few drops
And recline in the distant shade of a giant oak.
The rain must enjoy the raising heat
When with her glassy friends she can rest
No longer fearing the vanishing in the afternoon
And I sit back in the approach of a gentle ray.
Flakes have time to come for a wintry visit
Knowing their infinite beauty, they waltz
In their dresses of diamonds, pearls and shiny stars
And I match them in a suit made for an angel.
Bolts of lightning may be fast in their race
Yet they slow as they slash through the air above
Their temporary scars it seems in deep sorrow
And I stand hands stretched to capture the light.
Oceans in the Stars
He might as well be stone on a marble top
lying on sheets of granite sharp as mountains
stilled by eternity unwavering at midnight.
He might as well be dead under the shady ghosts
floating in wait of a miracle that will never be.
He might as well forget about the image of a dream
when the winds blow the colors to oblivion
and the air remains stale of unexplored tombs.
He might stay as he was, a living corpse on the shroud
eyes upon oceans in the stars seeking a light
if only he could still the beating of the dying soul.
Playing the deck
The cards spread on the crumbling table,
oddly lined up and stacked in a child’s game;
the tin box of cookies and sweets at hand’s reach,
she coughs and grabs the snuff so predictably.
Time has stopped for her she has no more
of a need for it than she would a tank or a sword;
a great partner at play with the bribe as always,
her heart gallops with a known excitement.
Little Boy came from another land it seems,
though in summer, every day, at the same time,
he makes his appointment with the lady
wrinkly, who sometimes still gardens a little.
No pet around, but the old TV set seems to meow,
bark, buzz with lives hunched over by the hearth;
she wipes her nose nonchalantly, adjusting her glasses;
it is already the third hand and she is a few points behind.
The sun lingers, thinking of a short night ahead,
ripening wheat, corn and grapes, bored yet faithful;
this partner has little care for much anymore,
the hands on the clock have fallen with the last news.
An accident, a calamity, a storm, a war, a few gunshots;
hunting season again is it? Ah, she might kill indeed,
for the taste of the latest vine of her fields forgotten;
no longer harvester, anew like the child she once was, she plays.