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.

 

 

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