Fabrice B. Poussin

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 and more than 250 other publications.


Fingers stretched to a distant horizon in hope,
an attempt to cross to another side,
one seemingly so unattainable always;
a face looks down away in contemplation.

The meadow sings in a glorious spring
so green and so blue in the quiet stream;
occasional spots of multi colors splatter the scene,
the breeze says hello unseen, yet so very present.

It is, it will not fail as it crosses the space
large between the digits and the waves of her hair;
if only it will change its aim dear,
softly brush her neck to a shiver.

Still, she is, in thoughts of other worlds perhaps,
of a past extinct in its sheet of pain,
a bright ray settles on her shoulder;
she exhales her old dreams, she lives.

Stretched across infinity the field grows it seems,
around the abyss unfathomable, deep, cold;
lone she sits, while a star winks in he vibrant gaze,
inside motion of a million emotions increase.

Soon the sun will say good night and pull down
the dark curtain of hope, scarred and bloody,
yet she will remain and a tear will be born
on her satin skin, twice reflected, twice known.

Mysteries now born, a symphony unseen raises,
nothing alive wants to take a chance;
it may be like death in two who stay apart;
never knowing, never hearing the call to hearts.


The wise sit quiet atop dear Mount Everest
alone they traveled against cold and death
open folio in their laps frozen in reading.

Space is white beneath, powdery and pale
above, thin, icy, solid as the mountain below.

Squatting like the scribes of eternal scripture
they have no need of social comforts true to all
enveloped in the aura of inquiries all resolved.

In the deep of the ocean their brothers ape
certain that they too found the ideal locale.

Theirs is the whole of things unknown to the rest
slow beats of a relentless life machine inside
guilty as charged of willed and complete isolation.

Be there one, be there many, the wise need no sleep
their luxury lies in a shadowy talent to be lonesome.

They have the deep power of all that is
the giants of the forest, dwarves of creation
sad, abandoned by armies of jealous others.


Explorer machete in hand and ignorant
greener than the pines facing him now
he must find a way to paradise at once
but the pillars are dense as a prison wall.

Squinting through the wilderness forward
considering exclamations of joy fearfully
he takes a step and begins to cut to and fro
weeds fight viciously back, relentless again.

Wild is the forest of thorns and darkness
attempting to repel this innocent intruder
dry of impossible tears all streams have expired
he comes to a crawl in the remaining mud of river beds.

Pushing forth the last threatening reeds
the hope is for a moment of rest in the green pasture
refreshing in a marsh friendly echoes of familiar voices
give life again to flowers of a renewed spring.

Perhaps at last he may find the strength to stand
embraced within the warmth of a new home
mirror image of his very soul glistening fibers
friend, mother, oasis and castle all the same.


Fed by the care of stars, comets and mist
the machine beats softly within the cage
delicate in a prison built for its intimacy.

Others watch the masterpiece as they pass
in this museum, mausoleum to a story
so natural, reflection of their own solace.

Crude padlocks keep the intruders at bay
rust testifies to the time long gone
when hope shrouded the device with a glow.

One stands frozen in tender agony
thief, he prepares a last desperate attempt
to free the soul, and give it wings again.

With hands full of red rose petals of young blossoms
he steps forward, invisible to the wardens
the magic of his will opens the gates before.

The world around stops as he places the captive
on the fragrant bed to feed it with life once again
for a quiet resurrection in a blessed palace.

Darkness will return to the barred universe
overwhelmed by the cold and death of the tomb
unknown to the visitors, she smiles at last

-Featured in Issue #1

Making Angels

She learned to fly in the snow on a first Southern day
the old man fell and made the tears in those baby eyes
with this accomplice a big game never to be forgotten
at the foot of the venerable giant that is Kilimanjaro.

A lesson well learned to be shared and never forgotten
making angels in the mud upon a January thaw
in a dress of a premature white and royal lace
for a scolding to be remembered with most tender grins.

Seasons of rebirth, moments of leisure and new trials
a swim in the sand, a dive in the pebbles by the sea
bumps and bruises and a precious gathering of seashells
memories and castles on the Riviera in the shape of princesses.

Soon the arena of their mischiefs will turn to gold again
to prepare for what must be once more mother warms the nest
while grown with their own wings they take a last flight
to softly crash in the oak’s worn out summer dress, and soar.

Behind the hearth the great land of water has turned to stone
but it is Christmas day, and nothing will stop them this eve
a family too must play, and little girl also she will go, slide, fall
and with her delicious angels leave their mark upon this time.

Letting Go

The walker carefully scans his surroundings

of light and sounds and scents

all senses move forward of his fancy

pieces of him released into the infinite.


Wanderer among forgotten bodies

entities in motion in the molasses of space

the conflict grows as he brushes against

souls abandoned on confused paths.


Opening frail arms as in prayer

he offers the speeding particles of a self

young yet but seeking shelter

with like companions for an eternal journey.


Shutting weary eyes he contemplates

the energy of the throbbing flesh

pulsating at the rhythm of origins

longing to merge with a multitude of others.


Thus, he will remain faithful to his destiny

standing on the very edge of the grand dwelling

letting it all go under a watchful eye

to conquer the ages he will learn to love.

Sleeping next to her name

Magic happens when a wish is born

lying on the side of an old home

and a last sigh shakes the world

before night crushes a last spark of daylight.


Miles away from the curves she made

warmth still vibrates through the membrane

of an ever-moving realm born of her womb.


Closing his mind to futile hours

skin to wood he does not mind the cold

of the pine tombstone as he drifts

into the living embrace of the vision.


Remembering the life before time began

curled into the hands of a mother

he gives all he is to the nurturer

smiling in death as in certain life.

The Day It Rained Upon Her Breast

We remember when she finally

shed the armor of steel and rust.


Her body pulsated with a newly found

weakness she never imagined.


Veins like torrents swallowed time

dancing into the present in glee.


She oozed a flow as if a galaxy

herself made of stars and warm objects.


Resting upon a bed of her own misty

thoughts she motioned to arise anew.


Naked in the flesh afire in the spirit

the fibers slowly burnt into nothingness and


she smiled into the realm as

the rains failed to tame the glow she is.