by Fabrice Poussin
Her soul floats
She owns the realm as her soul floats
in mid-air it grazes the burning red of
brick walls harsh with the heat of the daily furnace
disappearing into another day at dusk
next to her the power of aloneness follows
a thousand thoughts fester behind the glass.
Unanchored the body flees through moments
little universes to which she alone owns the key
a mystery she hides within, so many lives.
Mother, daughter, child, nurturer, sister
she is creator of infinite worlds she keeps
cautious protector of crystal hearth.
Watching her as she vanishes into her passions
reaching out in gentle despair to touch an illusion
soon perhaps she will write another line.
And there it was
Dust comes alive with the world’s new born,
snuggled in soft cotton of white and silk,
slight motion eye lids hesitate,
in slow deep awakening.
Arms shake off the numbness of the night,
into the door fresh of Autumn morn’,
delicate feet barely floating,
she puts on her daily life.
Sparks remnants of of her nightly dreams escape,
to hide in the folds of the sensuous drapes,
there patiently to await the signal,
when she will exhale the exhausted hours.
They will contemplate her every moment,
until again time comes upon them and she,
to reconcile into the realms only she knows,
up above, and beyond all perception of real.
For now, her hand on the frame of what awaits,
her breast seems to glow with the beats
of a boundless heart, as her breaths
precious of pearls and diamonds enchant.
Light in the day she wears, the sky in her eyes,
softly bid hello to a world that knows her entire,
the complicity of all things reminds them all
it is time to mean, again, to her, to live.
Now it awaits, dwelling in the waves of the butterfly,
calm, preparing a surprise as only it can;
so her return will be in glorious celebration,
when again she will shed a burdened shroud.
Cannoli and cupcakes
Sitting, away from snow, sleet, ice, and cold snaps,
there is only one thing left for him, spectator of
the lives never to be his, vicariously through the glass.
Eyes closed, inhaling the nearby world in one breath,
ignoring giggles, laughter, screams and cash register’s
melodies, he leans back in his temporary sphere, in the corner.
The massive door opens wide, boy and girl in first, for they know
the sweet flavor of a tummy soon filled by the flavor of
glazed pastries, while mom and dad drink their little joy.
Tiny goals of renewed happinesses, simple days of twins,
year after year, birthdays of every day, Christmas again
to many of all sizes, heaven for a moment with friends.
The universe stands still, near Broadway, so far away yet,
the family returns to the heat of the home hearth,
leaving behind them, a heart for followers to share.
It is an ongoing line of lives, seeking their well earned peace,
joys on the in, joy there, and again on the out, pure joy,
a house of cup cakes to forget every hurt always.
I will stand on the edge of the cliff in the highest winds
venture to the brink of what may be of falling sand
tempted by the abyss deep under weakened skin.
‘Tis better to take the long walk on the brittle bridge
visible to the one who seeks survival in every step
facing a void alone, with no arms to catch the deadly fall.
The heart must become an icy stone of coal and sullen snow
pupils dilated in the darkness salvation away from the light
courage pulled from energies seen to no other.
Floating liberated, denuded of all armors to evil and pain
helpless with no need to rely on an absent humanity
no harness will save from the conspiracy at play.
But the will itself, knowledge of all wisdom at hand
the body shed when the soul finds grandeur
gifted with flight I will stand on the edge of the cliff
Little bread crumb, tiny cracker dust
flirts with the old banana skin, in love;
the trident abandoned for lack of lamb,
longs for the sharp edge of the shiny friend.
A porcelain flat bears scars deep of pitiful days,
while the matching cup saw her heart break in two,
not even the old mustard glass can see
into the distance, but a mirage in the hot sand.
Ages have passed on the yellowed cloth,
worms satisfied their hunger on the oak table;
silence now awaiting, to be broken perhaps,
as a draft finds its way through the gaping door.
Fabrice Poussin is a professor of English and French for his day job. These areas of teaching have taught him to combine poetry, photography, and research. The results have been more than satisfying and sharing with students most rewarding.