Poems
by Fabrice B.
Poussin
Commonplaces
So many phrases made up of words
mixed in a lexical blender
ready-made for the weary on holidays
Hallmark cards in supermarket aisles
infinite in their superficiality.
Birthdays, weddings, babies, grand communions
bar mitzvahs and other celebrations
graduation for all ages, 5-year-olds to doctorates
they say two words to recognize the achievements,
landmarks in lives made on the assembly line.
There remains one, so final no one knows how to
approach the grief-stricken. Lines with black borders
they acknowledge the incomparable loss
for a husband, a daughter, a grandfather
left behind in shock as the sun sets again.
Condolences by the pound, sympathy, regrets and
so sorry’s in great numbers, they may reap
another year, a renewed crop of immense distress
as the blood turns to ice, souls vacate their earthly homes
friends and family stay still in their dark costumes.
What about the tightest embrace to the sad
mere gazes imbibed with tears so heavy
they might feed torrents to ancient seas
since words will always fail as we seek to
comfort with empathy an unmatched emptiness.
Medieval lady
Dry as an abandoned stick in winter
she plaintively took her seat at the lectern
sighing as if struggling to breathe.
She squinted with a terrible Humph
seemingly fighting with the words to speak
perhaps in old English or medieval French.
We all suffered with her after an early dinner
dreaming of ice cream and chocolate cake
as she fed us tales of libertine monks.
A few knights still shine in my memories of
Lancelot, Gawain and a certain Mary, but still
I ponder the old lady’s digestive struggles.
Sunday feast
Oblivious to the explorer
he sits at the rough table
eager for his chosen meal.
Methodically he removes little packages
all in red letters adorned wrappers
he looks forward to the flavors
he has come to expect.
A quiet afternoon in the hours
after perhaps a few prayers
in the good company of those
who have already forgotten
his name.
He had been dreaming about this moment
perhaps all week, a gift to himself
when no one knows of his pain
infinite loneliness in the multitude
of those who will soon storm
seesaws and other children’s games.
I do not take the time to slow my gait
yet his image remains in my mind
a greying beard, a piercing gaze
and the mere glee of a repast
as at last all his ready for his pleasure.
Tour Busses
They carry the dreams of people empty of true hope
so blasé they believe they seek the promised land
aboard a carriage for fifty and a clinic scent.
Too weak to undertake a last adventure
they take to the wild on the interstate
a schedule made for the newborn.
Dosing with the humming of the diesel motor
they dream of a soft bed in a nameless hotel
memories they could have made at home.
The vehicle vomits them at every stop
eager to swallow them whole again
before there is time even for a snack.
They will take in the sights before gambling
on a riverboat the few pennies saved for the pleasure
of a momentary high among the years of eternal lows.
Exhausted these men and women will stumble to their rooms
far from the children hard at work with the grandkids
forgotten but for a few words on a wrinkled postcard.
Wish I Could Sing the Words of God
Oh! How I wish I could sing like Lucy
the words Leonard left us, hallelujah
so the air may resonate with a glorious voice.
If only I could dance as Mikhail did
on the stage of the Paris opera
I know the air will become angelic statues
In another life I might play the piano
alongside Chopin, Mozart, and Tchaikovsky
transported by the melodies of the creation.
Perhaps I could try my talents on canvas
throwing paint haphazardly à la Pollock
to let space carry the colors as it will.
I fancy to be on stage under Broadway’s neons
to reenact Hamlet, Oedipus, or even Hedda
emulate the lives we thirst to understand.
I once dreamed of building cathedrals of
stained glass to create mystical images in the sun
contemplating the magical rays of dusk and dawn
But, here I am in the darker corners of the small church
made of a wooden home to termites and other pests
all I am able to do is tease the words in silence
so the air may wrap around you as a passionate embrace.
