Dreams of Men
Crossing the old DMZ not far from the country club
I encounter the same despair on a rusty bicycle.
A humanoid covered in colored skins not his
crosses the avenue unaware of the speeding Humvee.
Behind, he leaves the scantily girl of the night puffing
on the cheap menthols, in waiting of her next date.
She misses nothing, her eye on the loiterer sipping
on whatÕs left of a jumbo container of rancid wine.
The rose on her chest is making way to a new wrinkle
and she coughs up a thick past of tar and sorrow.
In this tepid loneliness passers-by still smile a little
for they seek one more slice of hope in the corner store.
They did save a few pennies on those rare luxuries
to invest in a sure bet for a few lottery tickets.
There they live, cast away by the world outside
there they die without regret for this forsaken life.
Witness to their many failures a nameless friend
collapsed on the concrete vanishes beneath his filth.
Monument to an age in ruins he is but a corpse
inhaling a mixture of what humanity spews.
Tomorrow he will be stored away without a tear
to be remembered only by the stench of his disease.
The gambler, the drunk, the whore next door soon to follow
devoured by simple dreams never to be achieved.
Prisoners of imposed vices their only belongings,
never were they to shake those shackles of destiny.
They all recall days of gentle spirits
friends and kin alike not long ago
when she glided upon her carefree ways.
No hall remained empty upon her passage
when her deep aura left a print
onto the walls of brick, stone and diamond.
A harsh season rose above the horizon
too frigid for the feeble limbs
little girl in shock before the highest peaks.
Somewhere below the gray she knew happiness
now buried beneath the weight of massive memories
she suffers in every crushed fiber.
In silence she pleas for a better moment
praying for the message traced within the flesh
to be known of those who cry nearby.
Far too solemn for the years she is as ice
frozen as once was stone of this earth
paralyzed below the mere fears of being.
She once danced with infinite freedom
making sounds of laughter to echo forevermore
inside the shell she screams to find herself again.
Solid in a present she never sought
the moment will come for her to arise at last
kind soul you are missed in this darkening realm.
His Kingdom for a Touch
At the furthermost corner of the curb
contemplating a new tear in the soiled denim
no thought crosses that aging soul.
Without raising an eye he sees the world
under the reddish shade of a fiery set
if only the dying warmth could give him life.
A little boy once sat where he now dies
in colorful giggles he played with a girl
a dream fading with his aching bones.
He touches his wrists where she held him
a vague memory of anticipated moments
when they simply embraced in secret.
Soon the frigid air of the night will embrace
this abandoned mass of wasted fancies
to crush the fragile remains of her image.
Alone the rotting statue will endure
his kingdom dilapidated to the last hope
for a kind touch in the self-imposed exile.
The Life in His Hands
On the table resting by the faded shine of a dinner
plate, muscles wrapped around the tired bones,
he says nothing.
Wrinkles bleed, trying to find solace in the soothing
calm, crevasses seem born of giant abysses,
a soft moaning sound.
To the rescue five relatives arrive, responding quickly
attentive, brothers hug their pained kin
in a dry rub.
Married for this lifetime, two sisters say so much,
consoling, their story is complete,
in this tender embrace.
A soul, a heart, a thought, in silence, wait by
patiently, everything he does, everything he knows
at his finger tips.
The passions of an existence whole radiate from his eyes
green, selfless, contemplating the morrowÕs tasks
a grin painful.
Not a choice, a destiny traced in generations many,
a dynasty, he may ponder a moment fair, or not,
and rest, just a little.
The Way It Works
Contemplating the consciousness of the ghostly peak,
as the carnivorous angel soars I must also wonder
what his aim is as he reaches the glassy expanse.
Remembering the flight of the albatross,
the relentless dive of the black giant on the cherry tree
I asked why so they flew these friendly skies.
From rock to petal to acorn, and to the great canine,
through those sharp eyes, how far do they reach
into the mysteries of menÕs imagination.
Sharing from within and beyond into past and present,
there is a debt to be paid for all other participants,
in a symphony we casually call the universe.
© 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 and the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.