Poussin is a professor of English and French. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published in 2021  and 2022 by Silver Bow Publishing. 

Ancient Scholars

Dust plays tricks on their weary gazes
Alone in the ivory towers of their genius
The world may run topsy turvy around their homes
Unaffected they seem frozen in the cradle of oldest dreams.

Lost in the midst of a cloud of stale smoke
Pipes lay cold atop the pages of an antique
Volume holding secrets of universes far away
In strange arabesques and magic formulas.

They may still smoke from time to time
Holding the rare cigarettes allowed by an old friend
Their hair grey for a little while longer
Floats above the vivid thoughts of their youths

Drinks have dried in the hazy glass
Cubes of ice wait for a spiritual marriage
As the light of those electric candles dim
On a world few still share with these relics.

Perhaps a last cigar will brighten the final years
Spent in secret within the oaken walls
Of a fortress built with decades of joy
In a thousand-year-old castle made for giants.

Those beautiful minds buried beneath the silver, the white and the bold.
Seem meek to the masses who have merely begun
Still they hold the wealth of all generations
As they quietly conceive miracles for endless futures.

If I had a lawyer

If I had a lawyer, she would be on
a permanent retainer. 

If I could afford such luxury I would 
sue the entire world just for fun 
after all, it deserves it, begs for it. 

My first target would be the politicians
for the few lies they told when I was
still a babe in the womb that yet 
resonate in every one of my cells. 

Then the actors and the athletes who
make trillions and live wasteful lives simply
because they can and are so entitled while 
most struggle 18 hours a day for scraps. 

I would have to chase Jeff Besos, Elon Musk and Walmart
those monopolies on a board game
flat as the soulless go 
for pocketing the change the poor beg for. 

What about the cops, sure why not 
if I still have time but they will come last since
after all, they will help me round up my crop
hoping for a little payoff to feed the blue. 

Let’s not forget the neighbors who too breathe
the air I so dearly pay for, let the chihuahua bark 
in the middle of the night and play loud bass
until my head can’t remember Mozart. 

And of course, the lawyers including my own
on her perpetual retainer. 
but then if I win there will be no one left to
feed this silly fantasy. 

So, I do not have a lawyer on retainer
since I can no longer afford her Porsche 
but I sleep well at night knowing
that she loves me under a grand contract.  

Poor Little Minute

It died without another thought
From the one who lost her
Uncaring in the middle of the street.

An envious eye prisoner of the curb
Looks as a vulture might to seize
The moment no one seems to want.

Why do the lucky ones not mind
Leaving such wealth behind
As the young perish in the fields. 

It might be no more than a minute
Yet I think of the dying mother
Holding the hands of the beloved tight.

She might smile for a little while longer
While her audience cries with joy
As they know she is finally at peace.

I too might pray for such precious seconds
To contemplate faint stars
Inhale a fleeting song of the wind.

It is like the dinner I did not finish
A table with a few scraps of birthday cake
Memories to be held dearest. 

This poor little shadow of a life
A ladybug in the hurricane
So brief it may be a treasure yet.