Maker of Butterflies
Devoid of powers to cause magic
I wish upon the days for a glorious hour.
Considering the soft lightning into the spheres
I can only hope to father their minute souls.
Immune to the dangers of another world
they wander in their eternal dance.
I see traces of ephemeral words written in the ether
and cup my hands to receive this wondrous gift.
A treasure in the shape of a heart I held
only to set it free as a million butterflies.
Then she smiles unaware of the powerful jolt
Alive within the welcoming womb of her essence.
I see you through those walls
a trillion miles away from the stars.
I shut my bodily thoughts and
all is clear once more
you stand by the door and watch the rain.
There are lines of shiny creatures around you
arachnids of life tracing your future
why are you so somber?
DonŐt cry alone in the dark
your essence expands far beyond
the frame of wood and aluminum.
Listen to the sounds of the night
take in the aromas of a sleeping realm
sigh dear, sigh with the pleasure of now!
Dry that ocean before it floods my desert
there are flowers growing on your soul again
breathe in; your breast holds the secrets.
DonŐt cry! Not any more
in the door frame of tomorrow
they will be back, all giggles, all life.
merely the assurance
of a soft pulse in the realm
Out of sight
within the dense walls
of an antique prison cell
Not a whisper
in a sound proof world
but a silence loud as a scream.
There in the multitude
two travel in subtle union
safe from the glares of strangers.
than the pull of galaxies
gravity opens gateways to infinity.
Invisible forces and
uncountable strings seem to form
unseen by the envy of jealous ones.
The Weight of Nothingness
A thin powder remains of what was once
a great citadel of the eternal mountains
now a white desert blinds their memory.
Bones also perished under the crushing blow
ground to darkened ashes as they once were
dried dust beneath the suns of many deserts
Reddened with the vermillion tone of many passions
gentle winds began to blow the story to oblivion
as it slowly vanished in a soft cry with the night.
The Passive wanderer paused under the vise
his being forced to escape the feeble frame
absence to a deepest abyss for a painful end.
To a Dear Friend
How many sighs of pain in the years
can you cry if you forget
why you cried, how you ached
whence it came, whether it was real
Life can be like that when all else is gone
the fibers you know least can claim sovereignty
the old brain tells you to feel in places
you forgot were still screwed on tight
Mr. Hankie went for a walk without warning
of course when needed, the alarm too has lost
her charm. To reach down means to turn one eighty
why not laugh at this unlikely chaos
No more marathon dreams, no javelin throw
perhaps a game of cards or dominos
if old carcass of a spine keeps her screeching down
you still have to hear called trump
Twenty digits canŐt count the ribs one by one
if only he could elbow the one who cheats
six years in donŐt make him a winner
no wine, no whine, no dine mister, no more
Few words to be shared, one grunt gives birth to twin ouches
trump no trump the game is won, and it is too lost
just donŐt forget why you ache, it may be
your last love story.
© Fabrice B. Poussin
Bio: 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.