Poetry Offerings From Ray Succre | Poem
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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