Poetry Offerings From Ray Succre




As Windmills Each


Bay of Coos Bay


Pause with Light Steps


Little Women


short bio




 

 

 

 



As Windmills Each
 

Have as with hearts that phantom fuels are inside;
gasolines, ghosts, electricities, stepping stones...
Purport yourself as having to compel a horde of fortunes.
  
As with hearts, pulses veil a steady frailty, handsome
fortune, as with hearts that pincers delect on a sturdy
dam of having, winsome, pious, perilous having,
off atop the modern starts, down among the world,
            tilling and tilling, windmill turning.
 
Have as with hands that fuels begin fits outside,
and are best begone and tided, then, when gone, taken
tidal inward, become our very grasp.

Have these, and be as windmills each.



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Bay of Coos Bay
 

Winds brush a statue of twilight
with knits of gulls; the vents
of harbor skiffs spotting
less light in the wavelets,
touring man made land on sea,
and gesturing brief to the tugs
what bray aside.
 
Twine, rigging, planks, knots and
stripping adhesives belt as one,
motors gripping arteries of wakes out
in the hallways off the drink.

Past the stints of docks and chutes,
past walks,
the sounding bouys left,
makes motion,
right, and more,
for a boat
wakes another,
earns the course
of many ships.

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Pause with Light Steps

  
Carefully, she takes a rough trail
through oceanic cliffside woods,
following my clear of stamped brush.
 
She is fearful of the spiders,
and of the birds,
and else, like a mouse
who travels its mile
at the rate of sensation.


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Little Women
 

A little girl came over to my table and sat down.
She asked me for a root beer.
"That's something you should ask your parents."
I said, looking around the restaurant
for anyone who might be missing a little girl.
 
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Me?  I'm a customer.  I order coffee."
"I'm Rebecca."
"I see."
"I'm going to be eight."
 
She put her little hand on my shoulder, then.
"Can I get a root beer?"
 
She was horridly cute, like a hornet sting
to ugly people.
 
I scanned the restaurant, trying to locate
her mother or father, but didn't
see anyone likely or bearing resemblance.
"Where are your parents?" I asked.
"I ran away.  They're out in the car."
"I think you should stick with your
parents if you're looking for root beer."
 
She squeezed my shoulder.
"Listen," she said, "I sat down with you.
And I want a root beer."  It was commanding.
"But I didn't ask you to sit down with me.
Go to your parents." I advised.

"You don't like me," she said.
"Oh no, I think you're very nice, it's just-"
"You don't like me." she repeated.
 
I was in trouble.  The little girl had
begun outwitting me, like an adult.
It seemed, in our modern age, that
at seven years old, she already was.

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Bio: 

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast
with his wife and baby son.
He has been published in Aesthetica, Laika, and Rock Salt Plum,
as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  He tries hard.

ray


raysuccre@hotmail.com   For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online

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