Friday, April 19, 2019

An unusual silence (Day 821)

Rain taps nervously on the window, 

reminding me of an unusual silence


another listless day, tasting of ozone 

and buttered toast, slightly burnt,


slumps toward night, breathing tepid 

promises of billowing May, heady 


with flutterings, and afternoon storms 

bending these gold-tipped trees



(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Embroidery sampler (1840s), Mexico,

via Wikimedia Commons


Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Beside me (Day 819)


When you see me 
sitting here, the sun 
bright in my eyes 
and warm 
on my arms, 
you may think I am 
alone. But that 
chair beside me 
is not empty. 
When the world 
seems too fierce 
and burdens 
too heavy to bear, 
I offer them a seat—
and, there, they wait
patiently, for me 
to rise again.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Tanka for Day 818

 

Doors open to spring

All things sing and bud and bloom.

Pale blue breeze lingers.


Drifts of snow, now merely dreams.

Rising mist glows, whispers: Yes


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Monday, April 15, 2019

Dark now (Day 817)

Like thunder   the world’s 
sorrow lands on my heart   
beating me into near 
submission   but for 
a mere glimmer of light
dark now for millions 
of years   luring me toward 
a sweeter time than now
a warmer place than here


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Statue of Joan of Arc in Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral interior, Paris
taken spring 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Steven G. Johnson.
 via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Saturday, April 13, 2019

On a scale (Day 815)

with the careful measured 
movements of a thief   he places 
pretty baskets on a scale 

baskets of tiny skeletons  one by one  
birdlike and frail  piled high 
against his crumbling castle walls

woven by knotted hands too sore 
to lift a bowl to hungry lips  no matter  
seldom paid enough to eat

he weighs and counts with glee
each batch of small bleached bones 
a victory  a testament to his wasting 

sun whose hate trumps love  and there  
beneath his gaze  they grow  
stunted with despair and fail to thrive

worthless alive  he craves the click 
of little clavicles and ribs in baskets 
he can weigh against his greed

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay