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Fabrice Poussin Poetry

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A million years

by Fabrice Poussin

 

I loved you a million years ago or more
my girl, my child, beautiful daughter of the universe
I loved you when I first set eyes on her
blue-eyed in her spring dress of fragrant tomorrows.

I loved you eighteen years ago
my child, my girl, daughter of a wondrous dream
as I adore you today while you walk away
with your own set of everything you are.

I have loved you both since the dawn of days
my child, my girl, woman of an electric life
I will cherish you until all energies perish
and then patiently I will wait for your return.

 

 

Half past life

 

It is late at life
days have gone to bed
under the shroud of light
left behind by a careless father.

A quarter of a time ago
blood flowed warm, thick
carrying a taste of iron and berries
now frozen in cracks in minimalistic crystals.

Too early into another month
the body refuses to chase a soul
emptier like the blinding hour glass
marbles drop in thunderous crashes.

Middle of nevermore thrice again
senses have parted ways onto the dial
making so many hands on the palm of eon
seconds, minutes, hours, and new dimensions.

Darkness is no longer
all stand still in agony
she exhales her very last hopes
it is a moment past death.

 

 

Innocent

 

They always talked about it with a chuckle;
a victory small and simple, great pride to them.

Occupied, they heard the thunder and whistle of
metal loaded with an explosive chemistry.

Yet, they worked, walked, sowed, and harvested
even when they came, in uniform, wearing double s’s.

Far from the city, free in war, powerful in meekness,
the innocents with rattling machines at a loss.

Families of four, ten and twenty, surrounded by farms,
feeding on idle courage, irony untranslatable.

When they came in pairs, hungry, begging for food,
their copperheads were as noodles in a straw.

Ragged stray puppies, pitiful in a stench of wet fur,
beaten, by a mere refusal in the face of abundance,

they went home to the camp, carrying empty guts,
pained by a hatred not understandable to them,

innocent, working for pennies, on a life borrowed,
stolen by evil, far from love, care, comfort and warmth.

Their years high-jacked in the flower of age, men,
looked with sadness, at these families, temporarily

their prisoners, busy with a meal not to be shared,
conquerors, their only right, not to die just yet,

but for the potato, the leg of lamb, or the apple,
no treasure could be traded, and famished they remained.

 

 

In Black and White

 

The image, odd reflection on faded paper
of a somber gaze, on a day so young yet;
November again, reminder of a birth,
just a toddler, still in monochrome habit.

The market place, desolate, near the sounds
of the same old merry-go-round, sad again;
what are they thinking these deep browns?
Perhaps of the next snapshot a year too soon!

Seven against a gray wall, laughing at the world,
mirror of surroundings so long forgotten,
no color in this domain, no joy in the smile!
Who were they seeing those eyes near tears?

Just black in a suit, and white in the heavens,
he seems to long for the days of freedom,
a happiness in scenes of tones and scents,
where at last, he may dance into the dark.

 

 

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 The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Writing Disorder is a quarterly literary journal. We publish exceptional new works of fiction, poetry, nonfiction and art. We also feature interviews with writers and artists, as well as reviews.

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