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By Fabrice Poussin
(Facebook: Fabrice Poussin)
Games They Play
They rush to know the outcomes
glaring at neon lights in the arcade
their mecca as they invade the palace
filled with the latest fashion in
clothing, electronics, entertainment.
One silver coin is all it will cost to experience
an adventure with avatars in battles to the death
for one minute of adrenaline pumping heavy
in bodies made to last perhaps decades yet.
Maybe they will win big, beat all the evil ones
and play for another thirty seconds staring
at the running clock on the screen.
Tomorrow, in the classroom they will repeat
with high anxiety staring at the wall clock
wondering when they will be set free.
Racing home, they might avoid a family meal
stuff their faces with detestable substitutes for food
and cloister themselves within the shell of their den.
They only think of what will happen next
eager to know, excited to win, at any cost even when
this means life will continue on at the speed of light
little particles without true meaning.
Thirty seconds for a game, an hour for study
six to visit the grandparents, a month until summer
eighteen years before the children find a mate
and at last time to begin again under the grey
of existences they seem to have wanted completed all along.
Courting for one Day
It was a short journey to the court
a brand-new world for a fresh heart
the scent of sweat and sandpaper
permeated a grand dream.
In all his majesty he walked to the stage
bearing a joy visible to the dancers all around
unusual in numbered blue jerseys
colors of a gentle hill in Appalachia.
Dressed in the glory of evening celebrations
shining to the delight of a young princess
he stood to face the duelist ahead
certain of a well-earned safety.
Soon he would return to the wooden slats
contemplating distances to conquer
after a little stop in the mirrored room
of strangely identified masses of heavy metals.
Little did he know of the coming hours
rushing to put out a great flame
little boy lost in the clouds
on his way to a meeting with the divine.
He had taken the solemn oath in spring
bathed in the waters of a new birth
prepared for a place among the privileged
a soft knock on the gate to paradise.
Little purses
They walk down the hall little finger up
as if holding a precious earl grey
in the company of royalty.
But it is rigid purses they carry
rugged like accordion cases
treasures they can never abandon
even for a minute instant of depravity.
Head up to size a lowly world
five feet above a ground too low
for them to squat and kiss in due adoration.
What possessions they hold in the portable safes
that they never part with the pinkish leatherette
and rhinestone incrusted even in their delicate palms.
Proudly they ignore the multitudes
wallowing in such grim poverty
insignificant as they suffer with fierce labor
while they do nothing but laugh at their stench.
Pocket books at the size of their true heart
they lack the wholesome vision of this lonely planet
hugging the power of a few fake gold nuggets
their poverty so much worse than that of the populace.
Frozen smiles tight upon their thin lips
like gleeful cadavers they walk in
in colorful disguises to hide their darkness
yet soon enough they too will be forgotten.
The Wealth of Despair
Into the darkness the rope dissolved
so solid in the house of the living
she held onto it tightly to keep him there.
Powerless beneath the brittle heart
perhaps he hoped she would prevail
too weak to assist in these final days.
In the sterile prison he still dreamed of his home
where warm by the hearth he laughed with Calvin
but his destiny was no longer his to define.
The machine had done its deed
it was time to rest within a kinder realm
would there be time to bid farewells?
The pull was so very strong she could no longer fight
her sight drowned by tears she let go
to collapse in a flood of gentle pain.
There she stood wondering how
so soon the verdict had fallen
why her prayers were not enough.
Now she rests in the comfort of what he was
father, friend, fighter for all to love
a legacy never to be forgotten.
While She Sleeps
He draws arabesques on the parchment
while she sleeps.
The quill slowly inhales the dark nectar
drunk with senseless ecstasy.
Another curve forms a chain and
another; words comes alive.
The light is dim around the chiaroscuro of
her softly breathing shape.
The gentle brushing of the silky sheets onto her flesh
the only sounds about.
From time to time he peers into her aura
as it dances with poetry.
Strangely, his writing has become image
the curls of her ebony hair the alphabet.
Lines continue across the page in arches
as if he had birthed her twin.
There is no order in the text any longer
yet a moving silhouette emerges.
Written in infinite details she
makes his hand tingle with tremors.
He might hold her in a tightest embrace
but she rests in the sleep of the pure.
About the Author:
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at a university in Georgia, USA. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other publications worldwide.
Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, were published in 2021 and 2022 by Silver Bow Publishing.
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