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.



DonŐt Cry


DonŐt cry

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.





No contact

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.


More intense

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.