In Search of the word
A
conductor’s apprentice he seeks the strings of the cosmos
plucking
at the occasional breeze through leaves of his thoughts.
Dreaming
of Chopin on a shore of pebbles complex as the last snow
he
gently taps an index as he searches for the darkest ivories.
Perhaps
the rhythm of an Africa he lost long ago will animate his soul
drumming
through the spheres a message sweet as a heavenly nectar.
Breath
fresh as that of a new born in the early morning mist
he
calls to the depths of space with the melody of the reed.
Musician
he knows the immaterial orchestra surrounds his presence
child
in the first lessons of the metronome he remains silent.
Twirling
drunken artist desperate for expression he stumbles
still
and forever unable to capture in the air a sound to make up a sign.
Noise
Six
AM on the hill as
fog
settles upon the antlers
of
deer frolicking unaware of
the
troubles festering below
trains
clamour in the dense night
in
a chain of unending defeats.
Seconds
would flow slowly if they could
groggy
too from a peaceful slumber
but
the silence is too much for man
as
he reasserts his dominion upon the trees
roaring
at the wheel of his infernal machines
trumpets
blaring his only token to existence.
And
they scream those children of inconsiderate days
needless
maleness affirming obscenities
into
the ears of the innocent quadrupeds
puzzled
by the sirens of the dying
when
fires burn across town
and
teenagers set the alarms of prized heaps of oil and gasoline.
Six
AM still and I would rather awaken in the jungle
with
the laughter of hungry hyenas
the
groan of an old crownless king
the
uncertainty of another day
than
to live among the wild
humans
deprived of the souls we once loved.
Ritual
Forgotten
in a frigid room of tile and ice water
a
counter as cold as the stone of his recent slumber
the
fragrant aroma lives in every pore
companion
to a cream and the freshness of the blade.
Morning
ritual never bypassed, the tools now rest
silent,
covered in the memories of their soul
thin
rays of a noble sun attempt to break this death
rejoicing
in what may still remain.
He
lives, they scream; in another world they too survive
it
only takes a moment of quietude to hear again
the
soft touch of the razor to the dying hair
under
the sharp gaze of those unfailing greys.
The
old cologne, the razor and the delicate suds
in
awe of what he once was dare not make a slight move
they
will wait until it is time to journey to oblivion
dust,
on the mantel by the abyss of the mirror.
Little Thing
She
looked at the giant a million miles above
attempting
to escape on all six in the dirt
it
had not been a moment as she thought
since
she had devoured a particle of dust.
The
monstrosity continued on its merry way
moving
mountains at the bottom of a sole
infinite
in its blind power to achieve oblivion
upon
a world suspect only to its gentle kin.
A
tremor soon shakes their home like a quake
so
strong to swallow all things, redemption
the
killer has collapsed under an unseen thumb
pressing
on a life so feeble in its illusion of invincibility.
Within
the carcass a little thing crawls
warm
in the home of these shrinking entrails
it
seeks a place to raise its immense family
food
aplenty in the bounty of this fleshy planet.
Tomorrow
will see another light
a
dimming sun will become supernova
victim
to its own appetite for eternal strength
it
may even beg for a respite.
Sitting
atop the cozy enclave of a palace
he
contemplates the cadaver of a brother
stabbed
in the heart by such a little thing
another
sun’s life shuddered by a tiny moon.
Symphony
In
the thick darkness of his den
composer
of many sonatas he sits
blank
music sheets waiting for his hand.
He
gave up the drink long ago
finding
the void a greater inspiration
enveloped
in the shroud of upcoming ecstasy.
He
drew the spots and let them dance
on
the sheet where he once dreamed of her
falling
back into a sleepy mood in her embrace.
In
a dreary afternoon surrounded by icy mists
a
gentle hearth brought life to the air
staring
through a dark glass her image came to.
An
evening like so many more and a sigh
inviting
the apparition to come into his chambers
so
life came to the notes in a fantastic symphony.
Another
dusk would set onto the adorned parchment
quiet
among the creatures of his night
under
a crescent moon scarred with her pains.
For
a while he was whole again in the desert
of
an existence made of mere illusions of an oasis
living
with her who yet was unaware of the gift.
Fabrice B. 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. His collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published by Silver Bow in 2021 and 2022.
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