(not quite) a literary journal


4 Poems, by Fabrice B. Poussin

Symphony for a star

I heard a man speak of the liquid sunshine above
he smiled with the news of a birthing dawn
as another sought for the lost umbrella.

He pointed to images in a brightening sphere 
as she attempted to capture the remaining song
of notes of drops upon the puddles of her joys.

As if deaf for a moment, she feared the end of the symphony 
as the sweet waters of heaven dried below the stars
falling into oblivion between the lines of the score.

But she opened her soul to the greater landscape 
feeling the sharp edges of a few rays she heard the sounds
of the sun as it softly placed kiss after kiss on her brow.

Another step and she tasted the purest warmth on her lips
alive with the scents of summers in wheat and roses
her lids shut upon the light, she could see with a keener heart.

It was a rain of marvelous words from the world above
a recent melody invisible, untouchable, unheard of her kin
her every pore exploding in a dialogue with infinity.

Sharps and flats from that most pleasant spring shower
she imitated the orchestra with every little move
and became the compositions of her latest vision. 

The Only Treasure

Unattainable, she swirls
in motion, to warrant entity,
to stop would be a quick death.

Conduit to unseen dimensions, she sings,
such a child with the years of wisdom
playing hopscotch in the balmy air.

She defines her surroundings in a pirouette,
softly jumping to her next dream,
defying definition as she traces arabesques
in the expanse.

Almost ghostly, she resists the embrace
when for but a moment she remains still.

Not a sound of her presence, such aroma;
her silence is her power over all,
as she penetrates nooks and crannies
with her soul. 

A lone word from the azure gaze is awaited
treasure, giver of life infinite,
before soon again, she sleeps
through another eternity. 

Tickled in death

Brother of a forgotten Usher perhaps he drifted
particles of an abandoned carcass in a deep crevasse
he joined the sparkling ballet of quantum stars.

As it had once in the life of another time
ultimate knowledge stabbed at his very essence
with the ongoing persistence of the infinite.

There was no pain in this anesthetic state
shrouded as he was within the secrets only he had shared
feeling from all sides in a realm with no reference.

Expanding as would another universe, he floated now
energy teasing the fibers freed by the death of a body
he was tickled to life now understanding his purpose. 

Top of Her Dreams

There is a heaping mountain of pebbles and trinkets and
they shine in the light of a forgotten orb
losing their minds among the wondrous clouds.

It is an arrow piercing godly souls 
an elaborate puzzle with crevasses to the deep
with it humble thoughts of another tomorrow.

Warriors ascend the dangerous slopes climbing
upon a smile, sliding about a grin caught
in the chuckle of a gentle tease.

Treasures reside atop the misty crest
those written in tongues unknown below
she yet has to decipher with a single breath.

Conquerors continue the assaults to become
the next guests at the climax of her garden in the sky
to so open the glazy gates of the kingdom.

There her dreams reign to inscribe the next events upon
the column of those secrets she amasses in
her daily exploration of an abandoned land. 

Where the road goes

It was a million years ago yesterday
Crusaders, Templars, explorers on their path
To the end of the world, they rode away
Seeking treasure, hoping for divine answers.

No roads to guide them, rugged land only
For the blistered feet, the famished legs
From time to time a drop of freshness
Quickly absorbed by the harsh sands of time.

No words enounced under a shower of dying stars
They continued in silence and dwindling numbers
Upon a dampened soil of muddy eternal tales
And narrowing routes drawn by jagged cliffs

Eons and a day their story drawn onto the blue surface 
Of liquid, solid, fire and ice, their lives vanishing
Beyond a mysterious horizon of rainbows
They lay, corpses at rest in infinite peace at last.

Tip Jar

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.