Five Poems by Fabrice Poussin

 

As if Merlin

 

Recluse in the dark forest

hidden behind the thickest centenary oaks

he has little but a few candles.

 

His eyes may soon fail him

as his fortunes have vanished

in the hopeless hours of his golden years.

 

No vials surround him

nor cauldrons filled with poisonous herbs

tongues of bats or blood of dragons.

 

The floor or rotten boards littered with old quills

velum thrown about in anger

a testimony to the failures of his magic.

 

As the grey settled upon deeper wrinkles

he laboured with the words he knew

his attempt to create the final potion.

 

Alone as he may approach his demise

staring at the portrait etched in his mind

at least he can embrace her with the might of his soul.

 

His eyes clenched like a fist he can no longer cry

still, he prays with his remaining strength that at last

she will hear his plea, set her fears aside, knock upon his door.

 

 

Breakfast of Champions

 

6 AM on a brisk Tuesday they drive

a quick shower makeup session at the wheel

almost missing the entrance to their daily

mecca, cornucopia of greasy delights. 

 

I slow to a crawl on the corner of Broadway 

and second again before the Walgreens

not to speak of another, grits and bacon, 

joint a short while to Lowe’s. 

 

The same ritual each day, week after

tiresome week hurried by unspoken

clocks meetings and frozen schedules 

soon forgotten in a two-line memo to no one. 

 

They go by the thousands to these strange 

Drive-throughs to speak to a muffled microphone

answered by a voice from beyond it appears

invisible to their unknown life savers 

 

Armed with questionable answers to their prayers

dripping with days-old dressings 

wilted Romaine soggy gators trapped

between two slices of tepid bread. 

 

I might scream if they could hear and beg

Them, beautiful boys and girls in their prime

before it is too late for the grave 

for them to bypass the arterial nightmare.

 

Pack an apple, orange juice, milk, and cereal 

just like mom used to do; just a minute or two

to sit at home and take a deep breath before

the gentle aroma of better Java. 

 

But like a snake a million miles they go

into the hellish den that will consume their bodies

with the stress of a moment lost 

the fear of an angry boss three times their size. 

 

Done with you

 

In a haze of fire and brimstone, the monster rose

perched on feet clawed of razor-sharp horns

boasting the large abdomen of an insatiable maggot

it wanted to kill the meek to fill putrescent entrails.

 

Done with you, it screamed through a gigantic hole

dripping with a venomous bile manufactured in hades

as it continued to gesticulate its puny tyrannosaurus arms

claiming a land belonging only to the eternal.

 

Its snout red with throbbing blueish veins

the skin sweated with rivers of rottenness

birthing warts and pustules boiling near explosion

the thing was relentless in its desperation.

 

It claimed superiority on all counts

demanded apologies from those it trampled

doubted the sincerity of the blood it shed from their terror

never satisfied even as it annihilated their just hopes.

 

This incubus has come in our realm

to devour the souls of those who still dream

of leading the simple lives of lonely beggars

spectators of the atrocity of this decadence.

 

Done with you, it vociferated again

as they walked away ignoring this devil’s threats

it is hard for the cruel heart to know that

its power does not exist against the gentle soul.

 

 

Joy of the Knife

 

It was too late in a never-ending emptiness

when he seized a wondrous blade

to plunge deep into the hated entrails.

 

What choice did he have but to destroy

a thing not a soul seemed to believe worthy

of a glance or perhaps even a moment’s praise.

 

He might see the life slowly flow to a torrent

weaving its jolly way to an unlikely future

reddish as rust in the century old dust.

 

When it became too hard to smile

answering the same question with a pretence

all is well in an abode where all is pain.

 

Everything near and far oppressing his hope

why might he continue on the terrifying path

where everything points to a well-known abyss.

 

Sleep comes slowly in the frigid home

hollow as it echoes of eternal absence

when dawn comes all will be forgotten

for he already never was.

 

Love pathetic

 

He might be sixteen in his

cargo shorts, wrinkly T and a

worn-out paint-stained pair of Nikes.

 

Crowds watch him at dinner parties

playing the fool to entertain all but

they know he has eyes only for her.

 

He may not be sixteen for a few scars

reveal battles with self and circumstances

the heart does not mind that the body screams.

 

They smirk as they call him pathetic

the grown-up little boy who still hopes

that what they inherited he will one day earn.

 

Who can judge the one seeking affection

when he would give wealth, limb, and life

to capture a gleam in the eyes of the muse.

 

Call him pathetic as he trots in her wake

yet ponder what the universe sees in

this man empowered with the love it meant to be.

Fabrice Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing. 

 

 

Four Poems by Lynn White

 

The Usual Santas

 

She was not the usual Santa

corpulent and whiskered

in baggy red pants 

and loose jacket

stretched to fit his belly.

No she was something special,

something out of the ordinary.

 

At first the reindeers were a little nonplussed

when her mini-skirted elves 

with green spiked hair

and bright red lippy

loaded presents

on to the very ordinary sleigh.

But they were impressed 

with the practicality 

of her red stripy leggings

as she climbed up

into the driving seat

and were happy 

to spread their wings

and fly through the stardust

at her command.

 

The presents were delivered as usual though

and this Santa enjoyed the mince pies and sherry

left out for her in every home.

Not everything had changed!

 

Wrapped Up

 

Usually I walk alone

through the woods

but today I have a friend,

perhaps imaginary,

I’m not sure,

but certainly friendly,

a foxy friend, no less,

to bring colour to this time

of cold with the darkness

closing in

wrapping me in a long dark cloak

completely covering me

so no one can see

only my foxy friend,

perhaps unreal,

and the birds flying free.

If they are real

one day I’ll join them.

 

 

First published in New Reader Magazine, ‘Nameless’, Winter 2020

 

Beam Us Up

 

Take my hand

hold it tight

we’ll stay 

close

in the beam

of light

descending

 

and then you’ll beam us up

we’ll close our eyes

and make a wish

as we rise 

 

and if we get what we wish for

we’ll feast 

on the scarlet sins and secrets

we find

in the red light zone

and stay

as long as we wish

 

if we get what we wish for

we’ll be in the pink

of our vie en rose

on our slow way down

 

to the present

carefully

avoiding the dark hole

of the future

that we didn’t wish for.

 

Abracadabra

 

 

Abracadabra!

All we need is the magic word

to open up the past

and step inside

the mountain

long gone,

and enter an age

of cold and ice,

a vastness, 

a void

of unknown

ice caves

recreated 

in our warming times.

 

Abracadabra!

All we need is a touch of magic

and it will be back

the worn down,

vanquished

vanished

past 

united

now

for us

to step inside,

a new old world

waiting for us to enter.

 

Just say the word

before it melts away!

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review, Blue Pepper, Arachne Press and So It Goes. 

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

The Night Before Christmas - Flash Fiction Story by Tony Dawson

 

The Night Before Christmas

Flash Fiction Story

by Tony Dawson

After spending the year idling his time away, Santa Claus, walked into the Elves’ cave to check that everything was ready for the annual distribution of presents to the well-behaved kids and coal to the naughty ones. To his amazement he found that all those he referred to fondly as his “little helpers” were gathered together, grim-faced and waving placards. They were all on strike, for heaven’s sake!

One group of Elves had taken up the cudgels on behalf of Greta Thunberg. They claimed that the carbon footprint of the turbocharged reindeer — Donner and Blitzen — were singled out especially¾farting their way round the planet thousands of times as they pulled Santa’s sleigh to visit billions of homes released enough methane for climate change to reach its tipping point. Greenhouse gases had to be reduced drastically, hence the need to ground the reindeer-drawn sleigh for good. It was time to seek a more environmentally friendly method of delivery.

The animal rights activists among his “little helpers” displayed placards saying, “Stop animal exploitation”. It was unthinkable that reindeer should be driven mercilessly around the world at warp speed without rest or sustenance on Christmas Eve. They declared that, in any case, Amazon could probably deliver all the stuff just as quick and use sustainable transport to boot.

Others observed that as coal was now being phased out, it had important consequences for Santa Claus and all those on his paltry payroll. First of all, it would be illegal to give coal to naughty children and secondly, because chimneys were being blocked off all around the world, the bearded weirdo in the red suit would not have his usual access to homes without being seen by the occupants, including the children. He would have to knock on doors to get in and so destroy the magic of Christmas.

The Gnomes, who had been taken on as casual workers on zero hour contracts, were on strike for higher wages. They were complaining that one measly Christmas hamper was hardly a sufficient reward for all the work they had put in during the year while he was sitting on his fat arse with his feet up. Given the rate of inflation, it was high time their remuneration was reviewed.

Meanwhile the fairy feminists, who usually spent the Christmas period sitting on top of fir trees in some discomfort or hanging from a lower branch suspended by their wings, were angry for a number of reasons. One placard read: “What’s all this Ho! Ho! Ho! bullshit? Who are you calling Hoes?” and another said, ”Haven’t you heard of #Metoo?”

They were also quick to challenge the idea that Christmas should always be represented by Father Christmas. What’s wrong with having a Mother Christmas for a change. Or even a Trans Christmas, come to that. They emphasized the fact that the very title “Santa” Claus itself was somewhat gender ambiguous as any Spanish speaker would tell you.

The bearded oddball nearly burst his belt laughing. He looked at them with feigned amusement, as he stroked his false beard.

“You do realize that none of us is real, don’t you? That we are all figments of the collective imagination? It’s all a con, an elaborate charade thought up by parents to encourage their little brats to behave themselves or else. Anyone who actually believes this nonsense is either under the age of seven or batshit crazy. Apart from anything else, do you really believe that someone my size could squeeze down even one chimney, let alone millions of them? Come off it!”

The rebellious cave dwellers looked crestfallen. One by one, they put their placards down. Their shoulders drooped. They hung their heads. They were at a loss. How could they be abstract notions in the collective imagination?

One of the better read elves whispered to a gnome, “Maybe he means something like that fellow Calderón de la Barca wrote in his play. You know the one I mean: Life is a Dream.”

Santa smirked and congratulated himself on facing down the strike so easily. He felt like performing a little dance. CEOs of the world eat your hearts out. He immediately thought that writing a self-help book for businessmen would be a nice little earner. Furthermore, his annual round of chatting up the wives and mothers in all those houses around the world and swigging a sherry or three in each one was safe for another year.

Just when he thought he had achieved a bloodless, not to say, financially cheap victory, he heard and then saw a group of breathless screen writers and actors bursting into the cave demanding attention. Santa looked alarmed. Their arrival was the one thing he hadn’t bargained for. The Screenwriters and Actors Guild were a powerful lobby who had been on strike for months. Their strike had done the most damage to his reputation because they had always been his publicity machine, constantly boosting his image on film and TV, buoying him up for the weeks up to and including 24 December. You could bet your bottom dollar that the following day, nine out of ten families would be sitting, grossed out, in front of the television watching any old film starring him, whether he appeared under the guise of Santa Claus, Father Christmas, or Kris Kringle, often battling it out with the Grinch.

The representatives of the Screenwriters and Actors Guild planted themselves in front of the downcast Elves, Gnomes, fairies, environmentalists, and feminists and held up a banner, which declared their intention to remain on strike until they were properly remunerated by the film and theatre industries. They realized that the supposedly well-loved figure of Santa Claus was the chink in the armour of those industries. Hence their turning up in the cave.

The blood drained from Santa’s rosy cheeks. Since he was in his cave, faced with a powerful opponent, it was natural that he should cave in without any resistance. “Look,” he spluttered, “I’m willing to press for a big boost to your wages and streaming compensation as long as you give me all the credit for bringing about the happy ending. After all, happy endings are what I’m all about. Do we have a deal?”

Tony Dawson, an Englishman, has lived in Seville since 1989, having had careers in higher education in both England and Spain. He’s published poems in print in Critical Survey, Shoestring Press, Pure Slush, Otherwise Engaged Literary and Arts Journal Volume 10 Winter 2022 and 11 Summer 2023 /Part I), Our Changing Earth Vol. 1; online at London Grip, The Five-Two, The Syndic Literary Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, Home Planet News, Cajun Mutt Press, Poetry and Covid, and Loch Raven Review. He’s published flash fiction in print in Chiron Review, Pure Slush and Otherwise Engaged Literary and Arts Journal Volume 10 Winter 2022; online at Literally Stories, and Syndic Literary Journal. Both genres have also been published in Home Planet News in Spanish. He recently published Afterthoughts, a small collection of poems 

https://londongrip.co.uk/2023/06/london-grip-poetry-review-tony-dawson/

Nine Haiku Poems by Jennifer Gurney

 

Haiku

in the silence

your laughter echoes on--

love's echolocation

 

***

 

there are times

I wish life had

a mute button

 

***

 

silence comes--

a welcome friend

amidst life's tumult

 

***

 

silence falls

with the setting sun--

gentle snowflakes of calm

 

***

 

there aren't enough words

to convey my gratitude--

hence, my silence

 

***

 

gingerly

into the silence you step--

light as a whisper

 

***

 

if I still myself

I can hear you, still--

even in silence

 

***

 

I can hear

my heart beat loudly--

through the silence

 

***

 

the snow sings

a melody as it falls--

harmonic silence

Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints, writes and hikes. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, including Lothlorien, The Ravens Perch, HaikUniverse, Haiku Corner, Cold Moon Journal, Scarlet Dragonfly and The Haiku Foundation.