Poems
by Fabrice B.
Poussin
Almost Man
It’s the middle of her dreams
somewhere between heaven and bliss
the air is thick and dark with sleep
until… a voice barks in the cosmos.
She tosses a rock up above the stars
turns to the East seeking an early ray
but the eerie chords again vibrate through
the fibers of space shattering to oblivion.
The ramparts are thin around the sacred domain
of the realm she aims to keep in the vault
her chambers warm and quiet as purer earth
until the furry humanoid stabs her world with a shout.
Dog, man, ware-wolf, she recognizes the gait
pushing the pieces of the puzzle into chaos
arching a back as it rages to destroy her peace
it is the enemy soon to cry in agony for a stab.
Her criminal fantasy is awakened although she loves
the creature prisoner of a torturous crib
she must inflict a swift death to the executioner
of those lives now vaporized by his arrogant disdain.
Old Bishop
Eloquent as Jimmy Stewart in his best parts
the one they called Bishop spoke of
the romantics as if he had known them
by first name and quaintest habits.
Poor guy, he insisted upon standing
no matter, rain, sleet, or snow
and we rolled our eyes to the patriarch
as he shared his love for the great deceased.
His health faltering as he enjoyed
almost seventy years among us
he had lain on the steel table more than once
referring to the unexpected sounds the body made.
Jean-Jacques he said spoke of Emile
ideas of freedom, love, and passion
speaking French à la Stewart
interrupted by the sound of surgical scars.
Tall Girl
The joke must stop sooner or later
although you know on your sweet eighteenth
still tallest you will remain.
While one laughed loud and the other barely smiled
a mate spoke too softly to be heard next to
the one whose courage with words was unquestionable.
Smile checks came perhaps as often as hall controls
but I venture they will be remembered with
a keener sense of joy.
For now, you may not hear about your height
for some time to come but know that this
only brings you so much closer to the stars.
The Words I Need
I have looked at encyclopedias
in ancient Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit
in search of the potion of magic sounds
to speak the words that will echo into
each fiber of your eternal being.
I have scribed voluptuous lines onto
a chest still attempting to heave
in India ink dark as final thoughts
desperate tattoo artist screaming
for infinite colors of a lost rainbow.
I too clamored to the western winds
in hope that your soul may shiver
moved by a force you could not identify
trembling inside to the edge of an abyss
where you will find answers to all your fancies.
If only I could be a wizard and cast a spell
made of rose petals, a soft breeze, and pure dreams
so you would listen to those pleas I confess
and lay there gently to receive offerings
of a man who was created but to serve you.
They Sleep Now
My friends of a fortnight or two
awakened like cicadas
after 17 years of a slumber
under the stages of Broadway.
The lead and his wife united
every day under the jealous eye
of a girl betrayed by true love
a holy marriage rehearsed time and again.
Showgirls on an unlikely boardwalk
senators with most bizarre accomplishments
amidst a cabinet of gentle fools
confused by the alien ambassador.
They crossed over to the pages
of a book made in utter silliness
dressed of costumes for the part
hair slicked from lovely curls to the absence of depth.
Nights in this world they made them laugh
in the audience of greatest oddities
in character to an assault
with never a semblance of a smile.
Then it was time at last to close shop
so they made the best of a final scene
forgot characters for a minute instant
to laugh with spectators who joined in the game.
Now again, they sleep to never
awake on the small stage. The actors
walk their lives anew as if naught
ever was their part. They sleep at last.
