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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