Saturday, May 26, 2018

Were they inconvenient? (Day 493)

Were they inconvenient 
for you   those first violets’ 
     expressive faces peering 
at sun’s sharpening 
edge  a blade of steel 
     custom-made to sear 
          summer’s shuddering grass 

So easy to miss   grass   
when friendly gazes 
     beam from loamy grottoes 
among the newly green-grown 
     blades   prone to being tread upon 

So easy to miss them    singing 
     evanescent spring into being 
          while crackling July droughts 
gloat   thirst   to crush 
all this   ridiculous tenderness
to crush it like a snake 
     beneath a desert sky 
to crush it like an early violet 
     inconvenient as the truth   
          beneath unheeding hurry

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Monkey With Violets (1880s), Gabriel von Max, 
oil on canvas, via WikimediaCommons

Friday, May 25, 2018

Warrior Queens at 1:05 a.m. (Day 492)

black sky at 1:05 a.m.  billions of stars 
stretching inconceivably beyond sight 

wondering: does life pulse or throb or ooze 
somewhere out in that vast dark desert   

or do we live and love and sleep alone
owners of endlessness we seek to end

past speaks to present whispering secrets 
future stargazers may wish to know   

how small we tend to feel  how unimportant 
our concerns in immensity’s shadow 

worries become clouds of flitting gnats    
responsibilities float like dandelion seeds
at the escarpment’s edge  facing outward 
tragedies and triumphs seem to blur and blend

did boadicea laugh in triumph as romans fled  
or weep for those whose blood she spilled

does midnight’s bending of right and wrong 
excuse the cruel from blame  condemn the kind

did zenobia’s golden chains belie her end
or did she take a stand and starve herself

at 2:00 a.m. the heart leans toward truth
even if courage soars toward its own death 

yet darkness still cools our burning world 
and all those beautiful planets spin around

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Comet Lovejoy,

Thursday, May 24, 2018

Assessing (Day 491)

Is it a flame so blue, 
you almost can’t see it?
Or a bruise you want 
to press, just to feel  
the ache? White hot 
or slow-burning gold, 
spiked or smooth? 
So many styles of rage, 
so many ways to feel 
angry—or not, as girls 
were taight. Watching  
the richtus of his mouth 
tightening around his 
ugly words, the feral 
gleam in his eyes, and 
the erratic nature of his 
gestures, while, there 
you are, on the other side 
of the glass. Assessing, 
examining him, as if he 
were a scientific specimin, 
subject of some mysterious
laboratory experiment.  
What a fine example of 
rage, you might think. 
Or perhaps: Could that be 
the rare white-rimmed lip 
compression I’ve heard of? 
I wonder... I wonder...

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Montrealais/WikimediaCommons

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Never After Eight (Day 490)

treat men nicely
they will
be nice (to you)
be ladylike
be a good girl
never tease them
they’ll call you 
a slut/whore 
a girl with
a reputation
(yes   italicized)
or after eight
ever call them
I was taught 
I see time
wrought little 
before   and   after
those     days     these   
it amounts 
to nothing    
for zero    
add par 
dont you wonder 
why old (wo)men lie

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

What I Am Not (Day 489)

I am not a Japanese Tea Garden.
I am a radiant beam of light.

I am not a tortilla chip.
I am a cup of coffee, black.

I am not an endless pity-party.
I am a reading light by a comfortable 
   chair on an early-winter evening.

I am not wandering down 
    the lane and far away.
I am looking at the moon. 

I am not a new pair of shoes that 
   make you run faster, jump higher.
I am a knitted sweater starting 
   to unravel under the left arm.

I am not Brussels’ Musée du cacao et 
   du chocolat.
I am an open bottle of coriander-scented 
   lotion from the Georgetown Kiehl’s.

I am not your favorite YA book ever.
I am a sleepless, sweaty August night
   without air conditioning.

I am not anyone’s president, elected 
   or otherwise.
I am someone who would have done 
   a much better job.

I am not a writer of stories and poems.
I am the language they speak.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: David Ohmer/Flickr

Stardust, lyrics: Mitchell Parish  
I’ll Be Seeing You, lyrics: Irving Kahal 

Monday, May 21, 2018

Senryu for Day 488

never suddenly 
meeting the turn in the road
never knowing how

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Turn in the Road (~1881) by Paul Cezanne,
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Mammoth (Day 487)

Imagined transparent 
against eons of ice  awakened 
without a by-your-leave
awakened without a choice
bold conqueror 
of the frozen old   a foreigner 
in this subtler new New World
Mammoth whispered   
a trace of sadness 
tuned his ancient voice
Sundry seasons entranced 
ere darkness rose   
Sundry sunsets danced 
across virgin skies
where only flying creatures
had yet flown
No pitiless fears will come again 
to tired spirits below  
But pitiless mornings will rise
above considering all you know
Eyes closed   he melted 
into the blue crevasse
what would come 
to pass still echoed 
on frozen air 
a trace of sadness 
tuned his ancient voice   
we have a choice   for now   
we have a choice

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Simon Migaj/Pexels