It is a mirror of stones, and sand, and weeds

cold in winter searing in summer dead in fall

will it again know a spring when the fair lady

contemplated the lush open field from above.


Now a fortress higher than Atlas on his knee

harsh in even its dullness it does not budge

stubborn with the might of Stonehenge monoliths

it keeps its secrets a treasure even to the knight.


No reflection in the glass once trusted as a dear squire

the heart only encounters the icy response of the berg

Colossus as titanic yet hopeless on grounds unwilling

to give him the anchor his feeble digits desperately seek.


Fearless of the abyss all around, it longs for the other

the image not yet found in this endless journey

of an intimate fancy attempting to form a smile

but the granite faŤade remains unshaken.


A soul knocks with the delicate will to move through

full of color for now alive of gentleness exposed

vulnerable of its own design accepting of a fateful end

if blindness is to persist and hide the truth.


Can it, will it so remain ignorant of the plea?

Cant it be so cruel to deny the hope for a glimpse

into the future of a comforting adobe seemingly so distant

where eyes will again open and be restored?


Set ablaze the fire which will turn rock to the portrait

captured by an absence unfathomable to be filled

with a slow and resolute pulse until safe to stand

facing the kaleidoscope of an emerging self.


Waiting for the seals to dissolve patiently

while the warmth revealed persists and subdues

he will cross over through the thinning barricade

to be self again and wholly shared with the maiden.





Papa cries in his old rugged beard, while Gertrude holds his hand;

they think of Ben and Tom, and Ezra, and Josephine, and Scott;

if only they could join forces with the living of the street,

they too would walk and hold fires of hope.


Under the Saint by the river gray and sad, no man fishes;

the bookstalls have nothing to say, their secrets they will keep.

Silence prevails, and the flashing lights have given up;

numbers by the hour have been thrown; no one knows.


Dizzie, Duke, Louis, Dexter, will you please play us a tune?

You know; your deep, unwritten songs from your old souls.

You see, I can tell you are on the verge of endless tears.

This tore you apart a little more in your tight grave.


The city, old girl, grown, abused and raped once again

is not alone.  There is an army on the rise, one unseen,

ghosts so many, of all sizes, makes, colors, and feeling;

awakened, they are intent on the task theirs.


From memory of two millennia and more, the heart will beat

anew, stronger at the footsteps of one hundred million souls.

A shockwave infinite, sending tremors to all parts, electric

it will be felt to the end of the galaxy, to the universe entire.


God will not rest, moved by the resurrection of the forgotten ones,

for a dagger has pierced the creation again, a little more deeply now;

it turns and twists inside a wound it wants gangrenous, incurable.

The pain is immeasurable, the hurt intense, it is not yet death.


Bodies scream, they agonize, some succumb, and families die;

the wave of hate grows wider, travels great distances into space;

time echoes with the cracking sounds of the last breaths on the asphalt,

never to be forgotten, imprinted in the heavenly memory.


This morning the blood has run with the early rain to feed the sea;

those who had hopes under the white shroud have found their last home;

the city weeps, her veins filled with a strange substance;

it is time to rest my beloved, papa watches, will tuck you in.


Pretty girl of centuries, playful, glorious in colors and song;

sleep this day.  Let the nightmare settle, your friends are many;

Papa will hold you when you wake, he will lead you to your people;

know that the world is your lover, and never will betray you.



Particles of a dream


her hands extend into the thick darkness

under the stars

ageless her smile echoes particles of time

as she reaches for a glimpse.


glow worms flee her attempted captures

twinkling upon a distant wall

they pirouette into their own mystery

alone she remains in the night.


she shuts her eyes to access the dreams

wide awake in a shroud of void

she continues to dance with the unknown

embraced by an invisible partner.


a sweet convulsion shakes her to a giggle

tickled by the mischievous grains

which envelop her being into shiny pearls

accomplices of her fantasies now alive.



Kitten on the loose


Furtive and careful as a blind kitten

intruder he stumbles upon the unknown

quiet as an apparition, unnoticed he continues

on the path to treasures unseen for too long.


Gliding around the corner, taking a step to the top

in a mysterious darkness at high noon

his body touches the surface of a fortress.


Might he pounce onto the prey he craves to hold?

will the attraction be so strong he will be trapped?

perhaps to a noble death he runs as the day prior,

he blinks in hope that she will once more catch him.


Child longing for the embrace of the beloved mother

he knows he will find comfort in the cradle of her breast

sleeping upon the womb that made him a giant. 



Limbs and more


It is very hard to get used to

a mass of cells, flesh, blood in veins

to live inside, prisoner, well-being.


There, a leg I am told, with foot and toes

up above, the arm, left or right no matter

so many parts, moving, smooth for now.


In the penthouse at top, quiet, calm, awe

fear of heights, and motion sickness

decisions must be made to keep ahead.


There are others nearby, very much like me

I think that I think so, that I am me at all

but you too, you believe you are so.


Could we exchange these parts, hard, soft

silly, and find something different between

you, me, him over there, and she right behind.


So odd, so hard to be one, to be self, to be me

if I move closer could I be you my dear, for now

for an instant, a minute, a decade, forever even?


Just a thought, let us close our eyes, yours, mine

forget these arms, legs and the rest of it

and sleep, at peace, and meet again in our dreams.


© 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 dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in Front Porch Review and San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.