Poetry: Fabrice B. Poussin

Another eternity

If I were to live another eternity my love
how many times I would lay beside you
caress your hair, whisper dreams and
pretend to sleep as you dream of us.

To see mountains arise as you sigh
holding your waist within my breath
I can only imagine your thoughts
behind your beloved blues.

I may lose count of the days
touch your heart in ways 
I never thought a soul could
my dear, my self, my same.

I will be here with you for all time
watching stars being born of pure energy
dying in the blink of an eye 
through infinite dimensions.

If I were to live another eternity
I can only imagine you in common essence
your broad spiritual smile hovering 
as God has from time immemorial.

If I had no phone

If I had no phone, handheld treasure of so many
falsehoods, what would I do with my days?

Perhaps I would dream of something to watch
on the flat screen not yet invented. 

Or bury my fancies in the last recoding
of Beethoven’s ninth on the far distant CD. 

I might take a stroll to the opera house and
partake in the experience of the latest symphony. 

Perhaps I would take the beloved to enjoy
the comedy stage at the century-old theater. 

I can only consider the endless afternoon
in the art houses abandoned in the inner cities

But who minds anymore that we know a neighbor 
as he dies tethered to a plethora of life monitors. 

So many friends alive in their private dungeons
perish without having truly been. 


Knocking at my door

When you come knocking at my door
I may not always be there
when you come knocking at my life
I may have stepped out for a moment.

When you reach palm up for a gift
as you merely seek to help me
when you change your pose in the light
forgive my ignorance of your language.

If you attempt a peer into my soul
as I look away without a hint
if you take another step closer to my shadow
forgive me if I feel the invader of your world.

The day you open your gates wide
you might see me bowing before you
for the scars of decades do not vanish so fast
and I will remain in disbelief of my fortune.

Please come back and knock again upon this door
too solid made to survive many battles
for the warrior inside is weary and longs
to tear down the fortress he never meant to erect there. 

Law breakers

Bearded as the first Vikings on these shores
running rushing boats into the ground
they seem focused on a purpose only they
can fathom somewhere in obscure distances.

No rule may stand in their way
since after all no one exists but them
as they break every law of the road
laughing with ferocious yellow teeth at the children.

Love killers they spit a gooey tar into a cup of styrofoam
as artificial as the so-called heart, hidden
in a cage of rusty steel and putrescent flesh
they hate everyone in a sea of self-loathing.

Carrying the weight of decade-long indulgences
they appear as if ducks on land
proud of the greasy stains upon dead skin
a 38 balancing uncomfortably around vanishing waists.

Children once they played at smiling
gorging themselves in their kin’s hate
for everything not entitled to their miserable greed
please with the monstrous ugliness in the glass.

Law breakers they wait, hyenas in the brush
near city avenues and crowded highways
to pounce and destroy the joy of the meek
so they may reign over a realm of the collapsed gentle.

When the Wrinkles Fade

Age is a funny thing
when you live together for a hundred years.

He looks to the outside
and sees marks of the years on their faces.

Recalling the decades
he still owns visions of what the world seemed.

It appears easy when you are eighteen
to picture elders as if they were dust already.

Things change if time does not really fly
trees die, glaciers melt, and mountains too erode.

The universe bears the signs of time in its own way
black holes, supernovas, and newborn worlds.

Sauntering at the pace of a young lad
he laughs at those who would rather sleep.

She follows him in the trace of many a day
ignored by those who look to another century to come. 

Loving as he was five decades before he knew her
all he can see is the beautiful girl of eighteen again and ever. 

Bio: Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Lifewere published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.

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