Monday, May 29, 2017

What You Do [with ME] (Day 131)

Violet-tailed Sylph, by Michael Woodruff

You read and you listen,
to old books and new podcasts;
you need something different.

You rely on the radio,
for company and staying in touch;
the best are weekend shows.

When it's rainy and gray
you don't mind like you once did
it breaks up the sunny days

You long for the forests
and hiking on steep rocky trails—
but still have the dawn chorus.

You strive to slow down,
it is harder than it sounds;
life goes on all around.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

For more information on Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME), which affects many millions of people worldwide, yet receives little media coverage and, in the US, almost NO research funding, visit this page.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Dawn Haiku (Day 130)

Photo: UltimatePhoenix

Finches run errands
In grass, sun-warmed rabbit rests
Languidly, dawn spreads

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, May 27, 2017

They Talk Backwards (Day 129)

Photo courtesy US Government 

they talk backwards and upside 
down in an underwater way 
that makes wind chimes shiver 
and sends a chill down our spines

so shameful we shrink from 
their lack of embarrassment 
is arrogance the same 
as confidence do you think

dear world please don't hate 
all of us we pray but we know 
that their spilled ink has 
stained our fingers too 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, May 26, 2017

A Lemon Falls (Day 128)

A lemon falls.
My grandmother boils it.
A cougar waits out the heat.
She came to me in a dream.
Mine or hers I don't know.
Waterfalls and lemons fall.
Grandma rolls the hot lemon 
with the heel of her hand.
Under a tree in the cool dust.
She squeezes the warm juice 
and pulp into a coffee cup.
Water falls from pointed leaves 
high up in the eucalyptus trees.
After adding honey she settles 
herself on the edge of my bed.
The drops sound like footsteps. 
She feeds me the lemon syrup
a few tablespoons at a time.
At midday the baking dust 
smells faintly of pine resin.
Then she sets the cup on my 
nightstand and lays her cool 
dry hand against my forehead.
Fog shapes pass like quiet people 
outside our lace-curtained windows.
Her smile is like the rising sun.
It soothes me.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, May 25, 2017

In the Window (Day 127)

Fifteen minutes and a gnawing hunger 
turned me inappropriately toward 
the local donut store where in college 
before we avoided sugar and fat 
I used to go with my roommate 
for Sunday morning debriefings and 
perhaps one of us arrived once 
or twice in a black dress and high heels 
with a sinuous swagger no one called
the walk of shame even if it was 
pretty lame to sit in the window across from 
your groundbreaking computer engineer 
roommate who spent her evening building 
things you still don't understand while 
you flirted in vain and looked sexy 
in your fuck-me shoes which her mother 
would have killed her for wearing 
not that she ever considered it being 
far more practical than you and therefore 
not majoring in Victorian Poetry.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

PS. Roommate is often in one's thoughts, and one wishes her much joy.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Labor Away (Day 126)

We labor away 
at our own 
vain remembrances, 
loathe to release 
the wild efforts 
of our dreams, 
to regain what little 
ground we may have 
lost, or to capture 
more in preparation 
for a shortage
in the hidden and
untrustworthy future. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Grand Lady (Day 125)

Abandoned House, Hagerstown MD

Never a grand lady,
Like those northern upstarts. 
You were even, perhaps, 
A bit careworn, compared 
With your neighbors, whose 
Fresh red confidence eclipsed 
Your plain-Jane simplicity. 
Or was your appearance 
Purposely misleading? 
You might have jealously 
Guarded the golden joy pulsing 
In your veins, familiar warmth 
Radiating comfortably 
To the scrolled tip of each 
finely-turned bone. Glimpses
Of your elegant strength,
Your faultless honesty, 
Your unwavering generosity 
—Visible only to those who 
Knew you, or who thought to look 
Beyond the customary trimmings—
Gifts you bestowed intimately,
Their secrecy lending them 
A covetable air of pricelessness.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six