Circling the Hurt

 

With the eye of the bewildered she circled the object

a ritual old of almost two decades she continues

the hovering of the wounded upon the gaping pain.

 

She glances to the surroundings for fear of that life

cut deep in so many little moments she canŐt recount

wishing she could come nearer to the broken treasure.

 

Barely throbbing in a few last gasps, the vermillion mass

slowly dries through the wrinkles a frowning soul left

and the thick glue turns to concrete a highway to nowhere.

 

Her gaze begs for a call to her breast to recreate the bond

as she considers the dear thing dying upon the road

excised by the traitor and the wrecking ball in his chest.

 

Gaiety is on leave for this gentle prison bleeding to the death

desperate cat of the wild, cheetah in search of an ultimate sign

she spies this life beating yet a little less in the scorched landscape.

 

Contemplating her many hopes her body shrinks into old age

hollow of the embrace she once cherished

exhausted she screams as her days turn to stone, phase to dust.

 

Alone in the worship of what used to be, bruised to extinction

the image of the giant thrashing her essence to the burning ground

she opens her arms to the freedom so urgently needed.

 

Empty where all voices echo in menacing oblivion

where can she find the substance that will again let her smile

when the betrayal came from one, borne from all. 

 

 

 

In a watery Veil

 

Why run, why kid around when the stellar orb is angry,

while the clouds refuse to compromise and burst?

a goddess cannot be beaten, her aura tarnished

by a mere few drops, by a single ray fiery.

 

Frolicking in the meadow green, under the tree brown,

feet frozen in the icy melt, scorched with the burning corn,

never can she stop, as never her jolly feet will feel the ground;

like the fairy of ole tales, she lives above, among and in between.

 

Her gown seems of stone, her body no longer safe;

her fortress is in time, in light, in space alone;

she cannot feel the weight of the dreary day;

contentment is her rule, lightness is her being.

 

Downpour is a welcome gift to the one who dances;

life renews, feeding the maiden in the mirror of her self.

Droplets into her world in impossible delight,

she floats electrified seeking, finding a tamed Phoebus.

 

 

 

Open Heart

 

There is a deep cut in the wall of this heart;

no pain, no risk of death, but a gaping door,

and a voice inside is calling a name so loud,

to enter and find refuge within its hearth.

 

It is a village, a city, perhaps a nation entire,

with highways, canals, rivers and mountains,

high, with their white caps in eternal slumber,

inviting to her; as you, she seeks asylum anew.

 

Gentle flames everywhere, to thaw a frozen soul;

birds circle and mark a sky of unexpected hues;

the pulse remains soft, guiding lights offer a path

where she may land softly, safe from predators.

 

The dome of a blue heaven refuses a single drop,

on this, the day of her rescue, as she travels in glow;

in awe she smiles as she enters this new safety;

she needs not look behind as the portal closes.

 

Toes caress the delicate surface before she stops,

the outside ceases to penetrate as the wound

now will heal quickly, a scar like a smile to remain

proof that once pained, it found solace in her eyes. 

 

 

 

Walls of the Universe

 

She sits on a throne of crystal transparent as her breath

floating within a life at the center of a perfect sphere

of opaque walls spectator to the events of her being.

 

She reigns above a sea of vapors essences of many lives

wrapped in the delicate fabric of silk and dreams

a smile hovers on the lips of a little girl on a swing.

 

All around are the moments created just for her

a puzzle of things to be, events past certain as the depth

of the cosmos and she reaches out with fragile intent.

 

This is a portrait of the woman whose death is not written

on the ever-expanding screen of possibilities, an eternal film

where every scene is hers to choose as she pleases.

 

Witness to infinite enactments of her desires

she captures in memories what is yet to be

oscillating metronome above oceans and valleys.

 

No fears, no worries to hold time is on her side

for she knows she is in charge of the destinies written

for her and never forgotten on the parchment of the universe.

 

 

 

Welcoming a dark new day

 

Dinner is done, the table cleared

to bed she has already gone, quiet,

little boy remains, the TV still blares.

 

The giant too is still, chewing on the last,

he will wait on his padded chair,

with his furry companion, Belle or Diane.

 

A daily ritual all three work an old habit,

without a word, soon the magic to begin

must be Sunday night, usual movie night.

 

Fire devours another log, little boy awaits

as commercials sell food to the stuffed

and Hercules succumbs to the powers of Morpheus.

 

Tonight Frankenstein will again haunt dreams,

little boy will alone see the players,

for the giant will arise and begin another day.

 

Crushed by the yoke of a possible pleasure,

Diane or Belle follows in the deep night,

where he again disappears to provide for his love. 

 

© Fabrice B. Poussin

 

Bio:  He is the advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award-winning poetry and arts publication. His writing and photography have been published in print, including Kestrel, Symposium, La Pensee Universelle, Paris, and more than 300 other art and literature magazines in the United States and abroad.