Poetry: Fabrice B. Poussin

Peeking in

The child wonders what treasures he may find
standing on the tip of these fragile toes.

What messages may this nubile soul decipher
peeking through the gauze of a summer net.

Grown into the gowns of a statuesque mother
she may feel the fabric upon her pale flesh.

She too gazes at wonderous futures in precious stone
a startling kaleidoscope of fiery colors.

They hold hands today as they will tomorrow
seeking answers to their intimate questions.

Giggling preschoolers grown into giants
heir sweaty palms gently clasped they stare.

Like organic nebulae their souls offer a glow
in which to lose their essences in unity.

Peeking in they discover the glories of landscapes
only they can fathom as the years dissipate.

As if for a cornucopia of sweet delicacies
their desire of ages reaches for ecstasy.


Remember the days of hopscotch
playing house with your mother’s dolls
putting on a grandmother’s old dresses
and at last trying just a little foundation.

You smile at those past decades
little girls mirroring what you once were
they giggle with a tickle of a mysterious touch
perfect triptych of a thousand old years.

They have grown from the days of a twinkle
close to the flesh whence they emerged
warm and tingly of a beat still within their breast
little ladies soon to go through the metamorphosis.

Still the same in your intimate fibers
as in the moment you brought a little more joy
to a world a little less empty for the moment
you do recall the butterflies deep within.

Child again, little lady forever to come
grown up for all those around to believe
you tiptoe about the years of the woman you might be
the universe of the ageless to be yours for all times.

Moving on

It was just another inch at breakfast,
and a few more miles at lunch,
steep, harsh, rugged for her maker.

She saw the change in her noble stature,
little girl last night, young lady now,
devouring her cocoa puffs once more.

She leaves a bowl, and a glass, forgetting
the creator does not mind, for too soon
memories only of those gentle bickers.

Frowns on their brows, smiles deep in
their souls, the engine roars to the crowds;
another inch, another grade; distance.

The boy too is taller, in another state,
another life, the heart grows larger
by yet on more beat, it breaks apart.

She waves good bye on the old pathway,
to the new friends; she bids farewell to
a past, her future more alive, this hour.

She is swallowed, and vanishes;
moments to be relived someday again,
in an old book of yellowed out chapters.

Another inch, it is the year to part,
let go, she is safe with her joyful grin,
soaring to her any morrows.

Just in case

He awoke at a time without hour
threw a leg to the floor as the morning before
mechanical as the machine of so many dawns
just in case this day something new could happen.

He dared look into the glass for new sign of hope
finding once again the smooth spot of his youth
and walked to the room where a fresh aroma brewed
just in case he found something to do.

He ventured into the world so little changed
a fresh Saturday on the eve of another summer
crowds already seeking the excitement of festivals
just in case there could be a story to recount on Sunday.

He had spied an ad he could not resist
gathered all of his thin courage to walk into the cathedral
and piled the bounty in a glorious green artificial pouch
just in case another week would grace him with a little life.

Every second he contemplates fragments of a world
he has known for weeks and years without end
and goes about a routine he has long forgotten
just in case he could live to burst into bliss.

Flight of the Hours

Time does not fly
unless perhaps it is written
on a paper airplane.

The dear treasure sits still
at attention as we walk by
feline in wait for another prey.

A two-legged creature uttered these words
today as night was setting upon his brow
heavy on the limbs, a globe ready to burst.

If the hours flew we
would have to aim well
and take them down to the depths.

Were the seconds to rush I
think  I might catch up and
reason with them.

But times does not fly child
perhaps you race to a death
and this one for sure, you will win.

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, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

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