Sunday, March 24, 2019

An ill-considered risk (Day 795)

In a frenzy of beating wings, they arrive, 
alight on an outstretched finger, wary, 
ready to rise again, to seek better shelter 
from the storm than this scattered mind, 
this voice, rough from shouting into the wind. 
With feigned indifference, I unlock my doors 
and open every window, to show I understand, 
to allow for their safe flight, should they 
decide this was an ill-considered risk.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

Saturday, March 23, 2019

Saturday Matinée (Day 794)

on the screen, a standard cowboy

the quiet type, a man apart

still waters run deep, her mama said

but those depths can drown your heart


aisle seat, popcorn and soda, 

hand to mouth, of its own accord

white-hot August, cold dark theater,

the only vacation she could afford

far from these bleak, baked city streets:

windscrubbed plains and starswept nights

no memos to type, no bus to catch—

just room to breathe, villains to fight


of course she knows this is just fiction

frontier life was unforgiving

but in this quiet cowboy’s arms

life would somehow feel worth living

so she surrenders, flaws and all,

and the dream sustains when weekdays crawl

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Friday, March 22, 2019

Of pizza and poetry (Day 793)

They knew culture and cowboys, 

pizza and Paris, taciturn deer hunters, 

and voluble librarians.

Theirs was basic fare: nursery rhymes, 

quiet forests, images of renowned 

beauty, predictable and familiar.

What they missed was poetry—

rhapsodic, epic, true, life-saving

—replete with nutrient-dense language, 

packaged in yellowed pages 

and flaking paperback covers, with 

the lethal heft of a Norton anthology.

As their youth subsided, they persisted, 

choosing only each other, embracing 

the silence, forsaking the gilded, 

sirenic allure of the tawdry 

and the social. For years, 

under a deluge of outside influences, 

it seemed they hardly talked at all, 

and ceased to expect the unexpected. 

Until that Tuesday morning, bright 

and crisp as green apples, when they 

awoke to find their own 

long-cherished myth had begun 

to transform the mundane.

All around them, fountains flowed, 

and forests chimed like bells.

Barely breathing, they allowed 

themselves to open the cover, 

allowed the book to fall open, but 

it was only when they sank with relief 

into the everlasting depths 

of those transparent pages, 

that even the taciturn deer hunters 

began to speak in verse.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Travel Tanka (Day 791)

Below, blue snow clouds
Folded paper mountains sigh
Sun glints on silver

We settle back into sleep
Evening arrives twice today 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Room between them (Day 790)

Reluctantly early, he 
glanced around the 
room to see 
if anyone had 
noticed he’d arrived.

She had, and
turned away, pale
hand firmly gripping 
the fragile stem 
of her glass. 
There was no
place to hide.

The room between 
them quivered and 
condensed until, unable 
to converse in 
those watery depths, 
everyone grew quiet. 

Are you happy?  
Outside, a bank 
of wildflowers overlooked 
an expanse of 
turquoise sea ablaze 
with sunlight. Have 
you even tried? 

The door latched 
neatly into place 
with a metallic 
click, and wine 
babbled into glass.
Gradually, one voice 
joined another, countering 
the ebbing tide.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Monday, March 18, 2019

Just Stay (Day 789)

Honeylit pond leaf-feathered 

falling music daisy padded lawns 

lingering spring murmuring in 

emerald-paved pavillions palm 

fronds whistling cooled golden 

smiles touched by decades passing 

still before your eyes a eucalyptus 

path beneath vermillion clouds 

and windchimes tuned to those old 

songs see now where you belong 

salt-tinged this birthright sprawled 

beneath your buckling knees a dream 

broad brush-stroked hours inspire 

swathes of fog-veiled tears and 

leaving feels like coming home 

just yesterday this way just stay

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six