Poetry by Fabrice Poussin

You dream I know

They saw the dark veil in front of your heart today
the earth spewing molten rocks onto the path you chose
an abyss collapsed as you tried the leap of your ultimate faith.

Vultures seeking a meal from the dulled lives of strangers
flew in formation above the domain you once called home
sharp pupils made flesh of those desperate expectations.

I think I saw rats, coyotes, hyenas and roaches in the room
a great feast to quench a hunger old of a thousand years
and there on the burning plate, what you once called a life.

But I know you still dream in the beauty of those fibers
involuntary spasms of a flesh made to be read like a romance
rob you of a smile, catch a glimmer of that soul you hold so dear.

Open the shell if you please to the dangers of the crowds
dare imagine what else lies behind the wall he built against you
for I know you dream for the body you own to live again.

Morn’

Floating above the early shroud a smile hovers
it struggles for composition into the slight breeze
of the window open wide into another escape.

The fire of rust has fallen as to its custom
smothered by the thin mist of her intimate wishes
the earth points its many arrows to the birthing place.

The daily mystery arises to tease the newcomer
life has departed in this desert of hopes and early deaths
dream of the seeker of torture, the stone cuts to the heart.

Yet he smiles ever more decidedly walking into the blades
he knows his fate is sealed through the thick red paste
rust to rust in throbbing rushes to the next lash of earthly daggers.

Hot with the melting of a planet’s core, the stone is a wave
an ocean for him to venture a deep dive into eternity
and his soul finds the infinite comfort of a father as he sleeps at last.

6 AM

6:48 am… perhaps 6:52,
Little boy rush to the kitchen,
hungry to be there for the big event,
like the first rays of the sun.

Focused on the morning sausage,
but ah! Morning no longer,
it started already 2 hours prior;
country bread in large slices.

Almost silence safe for the swallows,
in search of their meal also,
the cackling chicken and the rooster,
signaling a new day of Summer.

And in the kitchen, a knife cuts
through the sausage and bread,
focused on a day so long;
a day of noble tasks ahead.

Little boy sits too, smiles, silent,
eager for the life that always comes,
from the strong legs, the high forehead,
the rugged traits on a face yet young.

Fuel of bread, sausage, jellies and
not to forget coffee, black, mysterious,
certain in its goal to work wonders,
aroma, color, heat, and swirl rising.

The camera not there to snap
the photo of eternal memories;
Little boy knows, Little boy feels,
one day too he will share the vision.

7:03, or perhaps 7:05, one last treat;
the empty cup and a drop of brandy,
made of his hand like all else,
fruit of his heart, complete with his love,

Tackling life, without a smile,
the room is empty again,
his back, confident, walks away,
and disappears in a burst of light.

Little boy smiles with his heart,
the feast ended, the painting like
Corot’s, has faded but not from his soul;
Little boy wonders when he will return.

Eyes lowered on an empty plate of crumbs,
the patriarchal cup and knife remain;
a tear of joy runs down his cheek,
thinking of this giant soul always at work.

His castle of dirt, and rocks, and sweat,
strong as the ox pulling his cart,
head down, not another thought runs,
but that of care which seals it all.

Belonging

Sitting side by side they share a sight
touching ever slightly skin to shoulder
energy of warmth and heart travels through
she sees with her eyes what is in his soul.

For a moment of perhaps a great many years
they are confused, confounded, so alike
the rose at hand carries with it everything
to them; senses to their beings now identical.

He, scenting with her soul, she, tasting with his lips
when touching, they fuse as metals
the world theirs, they feel as if one
merely belonging, yet one and all.

Earthquake

Architect of a million shelters, builder of pyramids
before the temple, contemplating the crannies
suspicious of an origin, uncertain of a destiny
what indeed remains of the cement of that life!

Humble before the monument, submitted to fate
arms extended as if in a last supplication
a tear seems to be born seeking freedom
frozen the body may well have lost sense of life.

Inside, a thought perhaps may still glimmer
protected by the shell of what was once man
to rebuild, to start from scratch, to love again
but all things fall, petals and leaves to the grave.

The eyes close in a thousand years, the soul beats still
the architect feels a tremor, it is his alone
to wrestle with the space around now futile
he feels the trembling, and then…

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