Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Tuesday, January 22, 2019

If You Don’t (Day 734)

How can I walk on this ice 

   without slipping?

How can I look the other way? 

Navigate this overgrown path

  without tripping?

Feel my heart break every day? 

Beloved liars, bullies, friends— 

  because I’ll love you if you don’t,

and when we reach our separate ends,

  I may still love you if you do.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Monday, January 21, 2019

Hardship (Day 733)

It breaks our hearts that you’re so hungry,
and we ache for you—we do—
because we feel famished, too, 
sometimes, when dinner is hours away.

It breaks our hearts that you are freezing, 
and we feel for you—we do—
because we feel chilly, too,
sometimes, and must turn up the heat.

It breaks our hearts that you’re in danger,
and we shudder for you—we do—
because we feel afraid, too,
sometimes, when life seems to go awry.

So please don’t call us heartless,
or say we don’t care about you.
In fact, if you had more compassion, 
you’d see: We know hardship, too.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

Sunday, January 20, 2019

PB&J (Day 732)

That was a peanut-butter-and-jelly sort of day: 

Sweet, salty center, a bit tired toward the end,

Gently satisfying, in a nostalgic way,

Comforting as coffee with a trustworthy friend.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Matias Garabedian/Wikimedia Commons

Saturday, January 19, 2019

The Same Pure Sound (Day 731)

Hesitant morning 

leaned and stretched 

into the shape of an afternoon 

the color of unwashed glass, 

and found me, dreaming, 

pen in hand.

Two bright birdcalls 

   streamed from the woods 

beyond a rumpled counterpane 

   of grass and snow spread out 

below the window 

where I lingered.

As bircalls will, 

they drew a glance, 

green-eyed, from the sill, 

where the ginger cat 

had arranged himself 

like an eclair 

on a bistro plate

We both glanced toward 

   the denuded trees, reacting 

to the same pure sound—

To me, spring whispered: 

   Just a while.

The cat licked his chops, 

   and appeared to smile.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Friday, January 18, 2019

Now That You’re Gone (Day 730)

Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life...

an empty basket; you put your life into it 

and make something out of that. 

— Mary Oliver (1935 – 2019)

I don’t know what to say to you 

now that you’re gone. 

Never did I assume we’d meet, yet 

your presence was a warm blanket 

on a cold night, your voice a chorus 

of bells dancing lightly across 

a snowy morning. When I forgot 

the perfection of the everyday, 

I turned to you. Your words 

offered the warmth of a familiar 

embrace, the companionship of 

a wise friend. You were inscrutable. 

Inimitable. Cheerfully, delightfully 

unattainable. Out of sight, 

you were often out of mind. 

And then, like spring’s first crocus, 

there you’d be, delighting me 

all over again, reminding me of all 

the reasons why this world is 

worth the pain, worth living in, 

worth dying for. And so, you did. 

And, now that you are gone, 

I don’t know what to say anymore.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Claude Monet, The Magpie

via Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Try to imagine (Day 729)

Try to imagine 
   how it felt at the time  
quiet  complicated afternoons 
   sidling up to the jukebox 
playing Journey and painting 
panoramic pictures of the bay   
nibbling on Twix  curiosity 
   and imagination   carefree  
empty hands slippery with clay  
relationships rigid with freedom
instinctive  obssessive  wild 
like a hundred little campfires 
   on broad damp beaches

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Wikimedia Commons