Passing the Harbor
Harbor waved at, noon, by my young son,
through a window, car-seat soon a bed,
and the tugs brawn ships like neighborly loans.
The Sun sits still, annunciating brilliance,
as I drive, remembering 7th Floor East,
my commitment, asylum, military psychiatrics.
Gown the waking of chill, dotted in floral schemes,
tied round my neck like a sweetheart.
"It's clear you're a danger to yourself, son.
We've already seen that, and maybe you're past it,
but we need to know if you're any danger to others."
Indifference there, long ago, was mostly wisdom,
a body of water through a door, down a hall,
into a chair.
"How about it, son? Would you hurt others?
Do you harbor thoughts like that?" Did I?
Desire, change the room, Summer chance
release, diverted to normality, a nature
modified perspiring the shady gown it wore.
Then crossing the years that shared my bed.
Crossing the tease, dotting the i of a nude life.
Now, the harbor brays in the all noon bask.
My son in back bickers down his window,
and the car-seat brims over, adrift atop joy,
with his copious exclamations for boats.
With the Wind in This Shirt
Fleet, lie down, pave for me across
your planks and hauls.
I wish to walk to an island far off,
and I guard you know the way.
Small fleet, lay down your masts
and bow lowly in the capping seatop;
let me walk across.
My death is far, at end in your charts,
and the village I know is port for all.
There will be ruins and storms to pilfer,
there will be catches of lightning in hands.
Let down your engines and stewards and sails—
Fleet, I’ve bled out my dream upon you.
The Downward Touch
In the rummager world,
that's where I am.
I need the fat light of items.
Together with some,
and alone, too, I am
in the rummager world,
even here with you.
I will return from lights
and trinkets at last,
but in what form do I travel?
A flat, but imperfect stone
sent three quick taps from shore.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He has been nominated for the Pushcart twice, and his novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano