Jenene Ravesloot

The would-be sculptor of muses. A Poem by Fabrice B. Poussin

by 
The would-be sculptor of muses

Ether comes to be in the bright light
it makes auras like so many living hosts
to chase the others as if to mate.

In awe of the unknown phenomenon
the maker of miracles seeks a solution
to make a wonder from such soft chaos.

A silent symphony emerges in a waltz
particles of a curious matter embrace
swirling in a gentle cyclone.

Pondering the unexpected spectacle
magician in his dreams he is still
waiting for the only moment in time. 

Perhaps then he will be the great master
holder of the secret he has been seeking
when at last the creation becomes his muse.

 
 

 
 
Fabrice B. 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. Most recently, his collection “In Absentia,” was published in August 2021 with Silver Bow Publishing.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

The Days Unpack Slowly Poem by Jenene Ravesloot | Click Click

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high heels poem
high heels poem

The Days Unpack Slowly Sestina Variation

The days unpack slowly from a damaged suitcase.
Click. Click. Click. High heels click on thin linoleum.
Listen to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing.
Dirty dishes slide, swim in pork chop grease;
small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons.
Count these hours, those dreams, all bitter—all yours.

Count these hours, those dreams, all bitter—all yours.
The days unpack slowly from a damaged suitcase.
Dreams vanish—soap bubbles off plated spoons.
Click, click. Listen to high heels click on thin linoleum,
dirty dishes that slide, swim in pork chop grease,
sounds of doors opening, sounds of doors closing.

Listen to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing,
listen to those hours, failed dreams—all yours.
They swim like dirty dishes in pork chop grease,
each day unpacking slowly from a damaged suitcase.
Click. Click. Click. High heels click on thin linoleum.
Small dreams vanish—soap bubbles off spoons.

Small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons.
Listen to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing,
the click, click, of high heels on thin linoleum.
Count your dreams, those hours, all that is bitter, yours—
days that unpack from a damaged suitcase,
dirty dishes that swim in pork chop grease.

Dirty dishes slide, swim in pork chop grease.
Small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons
while days unpack slowly from a damaged suitcase
to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing.
Count your failed dreams: all that is bitter, yours,
the click, click, click of high heels on cheap linoleum.

Click, click—the sound of high heels on cheap linoleum.
Dirty dishes slide, swim in pork chop grease,
the counting of hours, failed dreams. All are yours.
Small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons
to the sounds of doors opening, sounds of doors closing
as each day unpacks from a damaged suitcase.

Doors opening, doors closing—all is bitter, all yours:
days unpacking from a damaged suitcase, failed dreams,
soap off plated spoons, dishes in grease, high heels on thin linoleum.
Click.

First published in After Hours, 2012

 

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