Friday, March 23, 2018

Words Hit the Paper (Day 429)

The words hit the page differently when 
the light enters my room from the east   

letters tumble and scatter  landing as they 
may in heaps and clusters  later in the day 

I will find an hour or two  when I can linger 
and hold them  gaze fixed softly on an image 

in the middle distance  fingers folding and 
coaxing the rambunctious disarray until 

a gentle thrill of recognition wakes me to 
poem  now revealed in its inevitable form

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Unknown miniaturist, The Monk Eadwine (c 1150),
 illustration on parchment, Trinity College, University of Cambridge

Thursday, March 22, 2018

This Inert Drama (Day 428)

This inert drama—
winds freeze 
you in place, warm 
on the tender petals
of your eyelids, closed,
face tilted toward the sun.  
Still, from within, 
ancestors urge you now
to run 
from that resentment 
while it sleeps. 
Smart, wiry dogs 
rush to their owners, 
joy crackling underfoot 
like ice in April.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: ulleo/Pixabayu

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

She Wished to Arrive... (Day 427)

she wished to arrive 
before the others 
into a neighboring party
this had happened

why when one is in a rush 
does every road 
suddenly burst 
into garlands of traffic
interrupted only 
by red lights and 
drowsy lumbering busses

that evening it seemed 
all those wide empty highways 
had suddenly shrunk 
down to two lanes 
simply in order to delay her 

stepping into the room 
she was momentarily disoriented
as if she had just jumped 
into a deep hot bath

anyone who sensed her 
anxiety perhaps assumed it 
explained her unusually
perfunctory handshakes and 
neutral cheek-busses
which had always been quite lavish 
as she understood it 
should be among friends

anyone who sensed her
would know just why she was
there and what strange
primal instinct
had drawn her 
like a fluttering summer insect
to a porch light at dusk

she closed her wide lips 
around an olive 
and chewed like a man 
on a thought 
that would normally have 
made all the difference 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

In memory of Sue Grafton, whose mystery novels I’ve 
so enjoyed, and whose words inspired it.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

No poem. Just an honest letter about my dog.

I am too upset to write a poem. So I’m just going to write. And hope I don’t regret it tomorrow.

The next door neighbor’s dog attacked my dog.

She is OK, just injured. A miracle, considering the other dog is a “Pit” known to be vicious. She saved her daddy’s life (and HE most definitely saved hers).

This is a bad neighborhood, with a lot of crime. Not the kind of place where I spent my life, but since I got sick with ME/CFS, and live on SSDI, this was all I could afford.

It’s not worth it, though. 

Living here is not safe for our spirits, let alone our bodies. I don’t want any of us to live here any more, and will eat 99-cent ramen if nevessary to make that change happen. 

For tonight, though, the dog and her dad are safe and sleeping. And I am laying here, trying not to think about the suffering neighbor-dog, injured during the “prying off” process, whose owner refused to take him to the vet. 

Trying not to think about how the police and animal welfare officers refused to respond to the scene because it is snowing.

Trying to feel safe, and not sad about how shitty life feels right now. Trying to quell a feeling of helpless rage. And to resign myself to dealing with this until we are able to leave.

Finally, reminding myself of the few neighbors on the block who reached out to help by calling the cops, running over with a pry-bar of some sort, and asking, later, how Lucky is doing. The world isn’t all bad.

A terrible photo of beautiful Lucky

Monday, March 19, 2018

Up Three Flights (Day 425)

Sandals landing on wooden 
steps like flat palms 
on drums  she runs up three 
flights and knocks back
humid air  thick 
with the scent 
of undergrowth  sweet 
and dark as late-summer 
midnight sweat on clean 
sheets  thinly sliced 
coral from a corner streetlight 
falling through bamboo shades 
across the bed  and his head 
less peaceful  less quiet 
than she knew  on the pillow 
for now anyway  a place to rest 
her mind when the present 
feels too sharp  because 
understanding is worth 
the effort  but you don’t always 
have to do it in the dark

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Edited image found on Pexels

Sunday, March 18, 2018

All Those Beautiful Places (Day 424)

I was there when 
that small warm bundle 
called life dangled limply 
in your arms a load of laundry 
bound for the line or a chilly 
expression of reticence on 
a face once generous 
as grandma’s whipped-cream 
fudge and fresh-from-the-garden 
berries served sunwarm with 
our breakfast every morning 
the artist doesn’t tell she shows
and deserves a snap of the fingers 
for all those beautiful places 
where magically even when 
there is no peace
there is still love

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Infidel Savior (Day 423)

Poverty givers rise cavorting clambering over masses who collapse and fall scythes whipping through spring blossoms like sharp beaks strip off soft bark exposing insects hiding underneath 

Their highest blunders oozes siren words poison to disparate pens unsheaths and sinks his fleet sword’s blade in to the hilt and twists like death on a swinging rope lips curled in a vulpine sneer

Infidel savior poverty giver tilting his resilient hate at guiltless guileless dreamers unaware of his voracious plague growing fierce on their unspoken fears and silent sleepless nights 

That brilliant terror festers under victims’ thin-stretched skin while his beknighted demons stroke and savor fevered brows drooling for a payoff drunk on inbound self-branded hell

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere