They shine, unaware, independent on the soft
shiny plane of shelves left naked, without
in folios, and photos forgotten and packed away.
They seem to smile in the sun light of noon,
alone, insignificant to all, they are a shroud
giving eternity to the buried memories.
From time to time a number will take flight
to spheres so far away, so deep, so dense
and join others fallen in another battle long ago.
Lines must not be disturbed for his sake,
circles and squares uncertain, they know him
are him, reflect him, a giant mirror of his soul.
Dust of his years, a painting of pure chance
there on the keys he will not touch again,
on the wheels which never needed cleaning.
The last of his worries when the world went round,
a finger print he left seeking balance to a simple task,
a map to his deepest secrets never shared.
Is it cold in Heaven?
Is it cold in Heaven he asks his eyes closed,
head bowed under the faint light of a star?
Another burning day of July called it quits,
but it is cold somewhere deep in his veins,
as he rests hopelessly, tightening with joy.
Will his soul care so much for a sun-bathing
morn’, a dew on his old pupils now so dry?
What is it like between the cottony clouds
and so much unknown matter, dark on deep?
The journey has begun, and he would sigh
if perhaps he could, but it is so late;
he remains still, hands crossed on his beloved
heart, frozen, smiling to eternity above.
The revolution has passed, the blade fallen,
broken, history a mockery to him who sleeps,
he floats softly, is it warm in heaven above?
The little boy has lost the scars of time for good;
babe again, he returns to the cradle of infinity.
The Life in His Hands
On the table resting by the faded shine of a dinner
plate, muscles wrapped around the tired digits,
he says nothing.
Wrinkles bleed, trying to find solace in the soothing
calm, crevasses seem born of giant abysses,
a soft moaning sound.
To the rescue five relatives arrive, responding quickly
attentive, brothers hug their pained kin
in a dry rub.
Married for this life time, two sisters say so much
consoling, their story is complete,
in this tender embrace.
A soul, a heart, a thought, in silence, wait by
patiently, everything he does, everything he knows
at his finger tips.
The passions of an existence whole radiate from his eyes
green, selfless, contemplating the morrow’s tasks
a grin painful.
Not a choice, a destiny traced in generations many,
a dynasty, he may ponder a moment fair or not,
and rest, just a little.
Fabrice Poussin advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award winning poetry and arts publication. His writing and photography have been published in print, including Kestrel, Symposium, La Pensee Universelle, Paris.