Afraid of the GhostI awoke to the same image a barren world painted in a rush by strangers seeking a fleeting reward. Heaven covered in a man-made lacquer safe from rains and from snows yet so hostile in its sterility. The vision of tranquility ended in the warm embrace of a blessed night. A sacred fancy made real by the dream vanished in the dense air of dawn fear swallowed my peace. Too soon I was to encounter the ghost made heavy with statuesque flesh replica of such welcome apparition. We would pass lives with a mere glance a polite greeting perhaps a grin to fill the veins with icy crystals. Longing for bright darkness I continued to rush through frozen hours to be so reunited with the constancy of my infinite. How about the seasonsJune may be my favorite month after May has ended of course. May is not bad endless as I wish it were sweet and so short all at once. Famously reborn rather than December and of course, January never to be seen again created for the sake of life October may otherwise have the last word. Like moving an oceanHe has written words on the winds of chance drew symbols of a future that would never be on the ever-changing sands of timeless shores. Staring to the top of Mont Blanc from the valleys he wondered if the powers of Merlin would aid to move yet another rock to found a monument. Seeing the ancient cities of the humblest founders could he carve the marble stones as Michelangelo so to bring life to another passionate Amazon? Looking to the stars scanning the galaxies wondering where the sounds of a lost voice vanished he might fall to his knees as he prays for the answer. But it is like trying to move the oceans with his will wandering lost highways his naked soul in his hands holding it up to be swept away by a furtive dream. Nice piece of livingClipping discounts in the Sunday rag a habit once a pastime before the big game now a goal to fill a gaping photo album. Pounds of news used to be a pleasure shared one section at a time with a lover now a doorstop to keep winter ices away. He remembers the funnies in technicolor syndicated laughter for a whole planet when family played rock scissor paper for a glimpse. The endless sports pages of local glories animated their eyes before the giant pizza pie, rot forgotten beneath the front porch. Yellowed out parchment a sad duplicate of his flesh they are a meek portrait of who he once was jolly in the privacy of simple weekly pleasures. Lucky for him he can still find deals for his needs eager as he awakes to rummage the endless ads last dim remnant of a joyful glitter in his soul. Poor ChildI touch your hand with a shiver so thin today in the wake of a loss. No smiles in the world, no laughter can hide the dark aura floating above. The gentle glow of your usual joy subdued by the weight of frigid dawns. Your body with the grace of your soul seems ghostly beneath the heavy chagrin. I see the girl who skipped stones hours ago and I seek the source of my inspiration. Bathed in sacred tears you might sleep so gentle your fibers you may break. I want to take another step forward enter the distress now your prisoner. Behind the curtain of such great sorrow you stand alone crushed child. Perhaps you will invite me for an embrace so we may share the ice and the heat of hope. For I need to break the ugly charm that now shrouds you in darkness. Summer Like a DressShe wears the seasons as would a painter A-temporal with every passing present. I remember reflecting the darkness of winter Upon the somber coat so fitting upon the maiden Little girl she may have been in her latter hours. Wrapped within her warming hopes She just stepped from the last colors of fall Bearing the aura of those tender musky memories Tumbled with the corpses of a dying spring. She seems not to fear the hazards of the city A silky skin mildly shaping her own curves She strolls oblivious to the haunting moans. Today it is a light gray floating near her breast on mere walk to a seat, she may dance in timeless space. The Magician She IsA garden of so many treasures you grow, love, passion, nurturing peas, and beans, and tomatoes, and cauliflower and potatoes; still it seems, like the artist thinking of the next brush stroke: blue, green, red, purple perhaps, you seem not to move. Your hand on the precious root, a green thumb loved by a seed, you never look up from the task, creating yet another child by the thousands, laboring, a craving mother by instinct; will you stand up, just one instant, reveal your face? A dress of flowers, perhaps a bed, lost in the landscape, in silence, ignoring the pain of a broken back so often, in oblivion, who could ask you to awaken from your dream, you see with those dark eyes so much more, so deep. So many thoughts grow in this mind, as you seem preoccupied solely with the plant, yet your lips move in a song yours, your insides vibrate with the lives you have made, you will feed; your hand touches the world, and the world loves you back. Will you look up and say hello? Will you look up and smile again? Your day has been long of fifty and more years come and gone; it is time for you to rest, it is time for you to live and be loved; it is almost dark, and soon he will be home for his meal. Please look up and smile, for the hope of your family dear; you have more than you need for a salad, a steak, and a pie; I beg you to stop, your back is in two, alas with nothing to be done; you are needed near the hearth, where the ham still smokes. Do not be afraid; look up, open your eyes and smiles, wide, your salad is a miracle grand, your pie no less than divine; we will keep the intruders at bay we promise, tonight; rest, o rest, you have done enough to animate our lives. The PleaHold me she said with all your might kiss me she begged in an eerie moan. Offered to the infinite stranger she surrendered all to another world. Touch me in places unseen rock me as if the angry sea. Looking for a fortress to challenge she only meant to vanish in secrecy. Devour my flesh so you may survive swallow me whole so I may live. Contemplating the cold slab of the altar she undressed to wed the icy embrace. Crush these bones she whispered let me go at last and be with you. Her last murmur echoed into an earthquake lightning and a smile, she was born. Thread of his daysNever broke though oft a broken man, always he chose simplicity to mend a world made for him, for him to preserve. Bailing rope his magic remedy for the shoe of many piercings, the breeches faded by one too many turns in the wash. Singular in scent, endless on the spin, multiple in shades of light sunny hews, full of purposes, tool of an imagination. The preacher takes the memory away; pretends it belongs to all men about, does he not know of the uniqueness of grief! Wonderfully numbThe hours have been heavy laden with the weight of summer rains. I awoke with the chimes of a new dawn feeling the slumber of too short a rest. Walking through the lowest clouds my spirits in a cotton shroud. I recalled days without sleep the gentle feeling of exhaustion. Wandering the streets of a medieval city beneath oppressing ramparts of a past. I sat back in front of the awesome scenery of the infinite night ever to come. 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.
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