Cotton Balls in the Grass
A good day for digging she thought
a whole night of raining will help
she puts on her best suit and begins
excavating the territory she surveys.
Often distracted by a winged invader
she contemplates a changing creation
now reaching for recalcitrant twigs on the oak
there is still great exploration to complete.
A real professional in her instinctual arts
she has company on the grounds.
a cadaver made of silk and cotton entrails
friends for months, lamb chop rests here and
there.
Victim of the adoring jaws he litters the
green
unaware of his demise as she will remain
pals Forever in the field of endless plays
gentle canine she gives me her questioning
gaze.
Divine mathematics
Enamoured with chalked
up equation
Relic of a century old
explanation
She stares into the
void beyond the wall
To discover the proofs
of the great philosopher.
She belongs to the words
Paints say little about the model in
her soul
Arabesques flourish in the gentle trace
of her curves
As she paints the first letter to
another sister.
She cares little for frozen moments on
a camera plane
Continually altering the vision of her
moving figure
Dancing on the page, marking parchment
with her life.
All the thoughts she exhales are in
shiny China ink
Reflecting on the walls of days only
she may define
One line borne of the mist of a
precious dawn.
Her story floats within the hours since
all beginnings
Puerile as it was on the birth of a
fresh galaxy
Syllables beat steadily at the rhythm
of her passion.
She is flesh yet only for a moment
given to all her kin
Illusion to the one who can only see
proof of her being
A body surged from the perfection of
fashion magazines.
Never will she cease to be to the
dreamer seeking a muse
For she belongs to the words speaking
the treasures she is
Endlessly even in the darkness of
infinite oblivion.
She is, and continues in this essential
journey alone
Gentle to the air ethereal realm her
accomplice
For all times printed onto the memory
of the universe.
Shooting the Hoops
It
was not a day before
tall
in his bright uniform
he
beat them in a leap.
Staring
at the hour he wonders
might
it be the time or again the age
why
he runs yet on his own?
The
space once so small now immense
he
seeks a challenge to stop the race
to
the goal ten feet above the earth.
There
were once dozens soon but ten
now
he searches the land for a friend
bouncing
the ball without a thought.
What
will he do as dusk sets again
when
shaken by the cries of friends
abandoned
now on a vacant land.
A
little less strong he will walk home
to
rest upon his chair and wonder
whether
this is now to be all that remains.
Smiles of ages
A
disturbance in the aisle,
the
girl smiles reassuring
the
child walks away
all
is fine in the heart.
Mother
has learned the art
for
the smile of a moment,
that
which will last a little
sole
language for the fresh babe.
On
his knees, holding the box
in
it the smile on an hour
shining
of a million stars
she
looks down, in jolly tears.
Sitting
in the oaken pews
listening
to the hymn
the
infant screams for a breast
smiles
of a century protects him.
They
travel together on the many paths
choosing
the flavours and fragrances they love
others
follow to be guided through
on
the secure smiles of ages.
When
it is finally time to part ways
many
will stay behind
so,
one day they too may join
in
the realm of eternity’s smiles.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter
University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel,
Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been
published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as
other publications. His collection “In Absentia,” was published in August 2021 with
Silver Bow Publishing.
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