{"id":512,"date":"2018-11-07T02:36:08","date_gmt":"2018-11-07T02:36:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/?p=512"},"modified":"2018-10-13T20:40:53","modified_gmt":"2018-10-13T20:40:53","slug":"at-the-speed-of-dreams-poetry-by-fabrice-poussin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/2018\/11\/07\/at-the-speed-of-dreams-poetry-by-fabrice-poussin\/","title":{"rendered":"At the Speed of Dreams – Poetry by Fabrice Poussin"},"content":{"rendered":"
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.<\/em><\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

At the speed of dreams<\/h3>\n

At the speed of light the message is clear
\nit needs not be seen of the most common eye
\nfor the words to speak loudly through ages
\nwithout syllables, characters, periods or commas.<\/p>\n

At the speed of sound, we hear naught in the storm
\nthunder shocks the waves of the music sheet
\ntrembling the gentle voice dares not utter
\nits life, so young behind the clouds of eternity.<\/p>\n

At the speed of days, we journey relentless;
\nstars, planets, comets continue their passionate chase
\nreflected in the puzzle of memories newly born
\nonto souls, canvases given to posterity.<\/p>\n

At the speed of dreams, the dialogue is solid
\nrealities struggle to assert a hopeless meaning
\nunable to access those certain realms beyond;
\ntheir history is a mountain built on silence.<\/p>\n

At the speed of you, fleeting in the precious instant
\ndisappearing rainbow of everything you are
\nthe symphony is composed in this prodigious ballet;
\ntime stands still under a new life of crystal light.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Berries and Pearl<\/h3>\n

The steps taken, each day, renewed,
\nnecessary for the hours to be pure,
\nbearing a message, holding the treat,
\nseeking the same old recompense.<\/p>\n

The warm welcome of old Arabica,
\nperhaps a message from cyberspace,
\nmaybe yet just a word in passing,
\nmeaning nothing, nothing more than
\na greet, timid of the thought deeper.<\/p>\n

The silhouette faces the glass to freedom,
\nhe must not startle, has to announce
\nhis soft coming, bearing truth on his hand.<\/p>\n

It is first day, dawn so fresh, clear,
\nshe deserves a kind reverence;
\nthe salute of Lancelot to Guinevere,
\nshe turns now and as always smile.<\/p>\n

What does she know, how does she feel?
\nThe plump, juicy berry within her reach,
\na smell of cocoa permeates the room,
\na gift to the senses so she may be
\nalone soon, her pearls touch the flesh,
\ntender, sweet, revealed to her soul,
\nnoble, royal, at peace again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Going Forward<\/h3>\n

The universe has an odd way to prepare you for
\nthe next step
\nsome sort of deep oblivion.<\/p>\n

A body shrivels into lines in the ground which
\nthey call wrinkles
\nto cover an aging flesh to vultures.<\/p>\n

A mind everyday waves goodbyes to old flames
\nmemories fade
\nthey say perhaps to prevent senility.<\/p>\n

Clouds of snow, ice and blinding reflections tickle
\nthinning membranes
\nand senses awaken to sensations yet unknown.<\/p>\n

He touches the snows atop the bald head of Mt Blanc
\nmelting away
\nfingers on fire tremble engraving their life upon the Earth.<\/p>\n

Slowly slipping along the sliding curve of the mount
\nshe follows
\navid with the years to join in saintly oblivion.<\/p>\n

It is a game of children on the playing ground
\ncomplete with
\ngiggles, cries, falls, scraped egos, alone in the field.<\/p>\n

Now silent, their essence still remains, their frames
\nsublimed at last
\nwe may close those eyes, and feel their presence again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rain in August<\/h3>\n

The sun loves a rainy day in August
\nWhen he too can slumber in a little longer
\nI share in the scent of the last few drops
\nAnd recline in the distant shade of a giant oak.<\/p>\n

The rain must enjoy the raising heat
\nWhen with her glassy friends she can rest
\nNo longer fearing the vanishing in the afternoon
\nAnd I sit back in the approach of a gentle ray.<\/p>\n

Flakes have time to come for a wintry visit
\nKnowing their infinite beauty, they waltz
\nIn their dresses of diamonds, pearls and shiny stars
\nAnd I match them in a suit made for an angel.<\/p>\n

Bolts of lightning may be fast in their race
\nYet they slow as they slash through the air above
\nTheir temporary scars it seems in deep sorrow
\nAnd I stand hands stretched to capture the light.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oceans in the Stars<\/h3>\n

He might as well be stone on a marble top
\nlying on sheets of granite sharp as mountains
\nstilled by eternity unwavering at midnight.<\/p>\n

He might as well be dead under the shady ghosts
\nfloating in wait of a miracle that will never be.<\/p>\n

He might as well forget about the image of a dream
\nwhen the winds blow the colors to oblivion
\nand the air remains stale of unexplored tombs.<\/p>\n

He might stay as he was, a living corpse on the shroud
\neyes upon oceans in the stars seeking a light
\nif only he could still the beating of the dying soul.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Playing the deck<\/h3>\n

The cards spread on the crumbling table,
\noddly lined up and stacked in a child\u2019s game;
\nthe tin box of cookies and sweets at hand\u2019s reach,
\nshe coughs and grabs the snuff so predictably.<\/p>\n

Time has stopped for her she has no more
\nof a need for it than she would a tank or a sword;
\na great partner at play with the bribe as always,
\nher heart gallops with a known excitement.<\/p>\n

Little Boy came from another land it seems,
\nthough in summer, every day, at the same time,
\nhe makes his appointment with the lady
\nwrinkly, who sometimes still gardens a little.<\/p>\n

No pet around, but the old TV set seems to meow,
\nbark, buzz with lives hunched over by the hearth;
\nshe wipes her nose nonchalantly, adjusting her glasses;
\nit is already the third hand and she is a few points behind.<\/p>\n

The sun lingers, thinking of a short night ahead,
\nripening wheat, corn and grapes, bored yet faithful;
\nthis partner has little care for much anymore,
\nthe hands on the clock have fallen with the last news.<\/p>\n

An accident, a calamity, a storm, a war, a few gunshots;
\nhunting season again is it? Ah, she might kill indeed,
\nfor the taste of the latest vine of her fields forgotten;
\nno longer harvester, anew like the child she once was, she plays.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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 … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-512","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-8g","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/512","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=512"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/512\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":515,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/512\/revisions\/515"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=512"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=512"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=512"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}