Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Silver Veneer (Day 637)

the sky, a flaking silver veneer
opalescent clouds appear to melt
a journey wakes, arises

the wise, golden moon glides higher
in a strange breeze, tiny flowers swing 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: NPS Denali/Katie Thoresen (CC BY 2.0)

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Big-game trophies (Day 636)

Swept along in the current   surrounded 
by brilliant men   big-game 
trophies on the club’s oak paneled walls   
your life a congenial mixture 
of grief and bonhomie   
of the trivial and the tragic
it has never been easy   
then again you always expected 
you would enjoy the company in Hell   
More interesting you said   so there’s that


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sagamore Hill, USNPS

Monday, October 15, 2018

Consolation (Day 635)

I don’t know how to tell you 
but this truth existed 
all along:

like that generous limb
extended   petals cupped around 
their precious golden offering

and that damp unyielding sand
beneath a tent that swayed 
like trees 

that night we braved a sea of wind 
which set the stars to spinning 
like the tilted sky was 
swimming with drunken fireflies  

remember
that gentle song 
your heart sings when you allow 
yourself to live  
to give 
and to receive
this consolation   
this reprieve


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Picryl

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Vinland Song (Day 634)

where blue ice cleaves 
the sea she waits and I
the one who chose 
might ever be departed 

no one else must 
know our blood spilled 
rose-red on unmarred snow 

we vowed and yet 
so far from home 
am I in unmarked lands 
so unprepared 
to hand my life away 

just now    the fire 
sings a lullabye 
and I draw near 
to see her face 
within the flames

the dream I seek will come 
tonight same as it always does

the sun has risen and 
she waits for me 
with hands outstretched 
toward an endless sea

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Russell Wills

Saturday, October 13, 2018

Writing on you (Day 633)


Today, I am writing on you, 
my pen’s nib pillowing into 
your soft skin, a tiny puddle 
of ink, hardly more than a speck, 
dots the hollow of your throat, 
where my thumb fits, just so, 
the skin soft and tender, 
anticipating my touch. 
My line curves from the corner 
of your eye, to the side 
of your mouth that quirks up 
just before you smile. 
Across the firm expanse of your 
back, my signature, a spider's 
web, intertwined with leaves and 
vines, the faintest scar. 
Then, where a flower might bloom, 
allow my pen to linger, and slowly, 
carefully add your name to mine.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Prehistoric hand stencils at the Cuevas 
de las Manos upon Río Pinturas, near the town of 
Perito Moreno in Santa Cruz Province, Argentina.
Mariano (CC BY-SA 3.0)/Wikimedia Commons

Friday, October 12, 2018

I am bare branches (Day 632)


I am bare branches, streaked with moss 
and damp-darkened, north-facing shadows.
I am that secret place—there, all the way up 
—where a bird's nest rested securely through 
a summer’s worth of thunderstorms, and 
where, now, only a few strands of yellowing 
weeds waver in the wind.
I am a shade-strewn evening porch, overlooking 
an emerald expanse of tender grass, 
soon to be blanketed by a crystal sheet of ice 
or the white-hot kiss of winter's first snow.
I am the unwritten poem, rising, subsiding, 
always just out of sight, known but unrecognizable, 
a season of shifting light and midnight frost, 
of dreams lost to the joy of waking, and, this time, 
I am taking my own sweet time.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Hernán Piñera/Flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Thursday, October 11, 2018

When you think of me (Day 631)


So, when you think of me,

am I sleeping? 

Am I awake, eyes pressed 

against the darkness,

trying to see into tomorrow?

When you think of me, 

am I alone? Is it a sad, 

spinsterish solitude? 

Or maybe my aloneness is 

tinged with the coolness 

of the crone? Am I content? 

Or do I fret and suffer 

in your thoughts? Do I 

cry or laugh? Shuffle or stride?

And then again, I wonder, 

and perhaps you wonder too, 

whether, you really ought to 

think of me at all.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six


Image: Looking Out the Window (1908),

by Peter Vilhelm Ilsted via Wikimedia Commons