Poetry: Fabrice Poussin

Birds of Prey

Permanent as the depths of space

a dark cloud hovers over the crowds

fragile in their naïve innocence.  

Animated with the dreams of a morrow

they take their place in the flow

of eternities marked upon their streets.

Thick as an ocean of tar the mass follows

from above at a safe distance glaring

like birds of prey for the weak child.

In turn each will pounce and take a life

entrusted to them with the kindness of submission

cheated by a promise to protect and to hold.

Still wet with the first lights upon their skins

they have surrendered to these black vultures

mistaking their fiery glance for a noble oath.

Now the storm attacks as a vile battalion

without mercy it will devour all that it touches

to leave behind but a field of horrifies carcasses.   

***

Easy to Die

Lives move at the pace of a blur;

he sits in the café with a large drink

stunned by the ghosts all around.

None will stop for a mere flash

too busy as they are in futile motions

in herds small or large yet alone

The funeral cortege swings by, surrounded

with the gyrating colors of the flag

under relentless rains cold as ice.

So many have traversed the city

following the route to oblivion leaving

skid marks in the black top for a legacy.

If only they had had time to prepare

to compose a symphony even to the wind

for an echo to remember them into eternity. 

But they chose to suffer without meaning

speeding through the days bequeathed them

unaware of the darkness when they come to the end.

If only they knew how easy it is to die

when you have written a story upon the night

another chapter added to the tale of the universe.

***

Fall of the Temple

It might be a dark veil on a virgin land

somber skies thundering above their souls

otherwise pure as on the hour of their births. 

Long ago in a realm without time

they could recall the playful hours

moments of utmost joy without perils. 

Now the skin is dry below the surface

their pupils glazed over with boredom

desperate convulsions have begun.

Watch these vestiges of ancestry

as they cough thick molasses on the whiteness

of puerile dresses to stain without respite.

Below the breast walls collapse

rotten to the core by too much abandon

afire with the last sparks of devastation.

The bodies rage to a doubtful finish line

decaying on the edge of a trash heap

old cigarettes, whiskey bottles and syringes

They might be ghosts attempting to speak

raspy sounds like anger to the living

will they even find rest in their deaths?

***

 

Monsters

Retreated behind their temporary shelters

Hiding beneath skins of nylon and fibers

Reclined upon the fake comfort of rest

Ghastly whimpers emerge from those lungs.

Fragile as the morrow’s next dew

Frightened to take another living breath

Pale as the ghosts of ancient pictures

Their terror turns to cruelty undercover.

Soon enough they will emerge 

From this forced retirement 

Like snakes from hibernation

With their horrid grizzly masks.

Wearing the safety of bluer horizons

Holding hands on their way to the crowds

Close enough to merge every cell

To become those contagious clones of greed.

Perfect in their renewed births

From deep darkness they will shine yet

Under the pretense of kind souls

To devour those who know but suffering. 

***

 

Remembering Hopper

It is easy to remember the artist

of colorful diners lost in a low neon glow.

It takes little effort to recall the words

of the poet who sat alone in a forgotten eatery.

So many have come and gone through those doors

revolving from one lone moment to another.

Their shadows continue to haunt the leather

of worn-out chairs where a dying cat slumbers.

Signs have faded under the hailstorm

wooden steps rotten to the weary traveler.

But to the spirit of the one who never left

the scene is too familiar to vanish from his fibers.

It is his life carved in true sentences

his tears painted upon the veined canvas.

Too well does he know what it means to be lost

as he stares at the benches by the night.  

***

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 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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Setu, April 2022