Thursday, June 21, 2018

Kindnesses, No.2 (Day 519)



Sometimes 

the kindest words 

are those 
that remain 

unspoken



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Portrait of Marie Antoinette (1755-1793), 
attributed to Martin van Meytens, oil on canvas 
(WikimediaCommons)

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Kindnesses, No.1 (Day 519)

And she told me  once
toward the end:
Of all the kindnesses 
I have received  and 
there have been many  
the ones I remember 
most  cost the giver 
nothing at all.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Quieten (Day 517)

When she turned it was green 
or was it violet   the light 
in his eyes sharp as the pinprick 
scratch of dried grass beneath 
his shoulders   his mother used 
to favor an odd word: quieten   
quieten yourself now   she would say 
when he or one of his sisters 
cried or got out of hand   but peace 
is absent here   where someone 
has been painting the land around 
him all the shades of autumn



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Lillaby/Pixabay

Monday, June 18, 2018

Looking Through Diamonds (Day 516)


Looking through
tiny diamonds
the world   sliced 
into gem-shaped  
sections   none small 
enough  large enough   
each glimpse 
too micro   too macro   
to be of any use
except to those 
who have no need


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MrMagooICU/Flickr

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Listening To You (Day 515)

Listening, I can’t hear you 
in the other room where 
you used to read and write 
long after dark.

I can’t hear your fingers on 
the keys, the steady breath 
of words blooming like steam
on your page,

Your footsteps, your whistling
or humming odd snatches of 
songs—even your silences—
gone,

Leaving only a persistent scent 
of absence lingering on the air, 
where I spent countless hours 
listening.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Dedicated to Rob Bamberger, with heaps of gratitude 
for nearly 40 decades of Hot Jazz Saturday Nights

Image: MaxPixel

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Fields of White and Red (Day 514)

transparent trouble blooms
in fields of white and red 
raising tales of dank 
insatiable fear   running in 
dark dashes and dusky 
currents   painting the gutters 
carmine lips motion 
to confront 
but say nothing   knotting 
cords of leaping words 
foreign yet familiar 
temples of justice dangle 
poverty like baskets of candy 
for starving children   stomachs 
full but distended beneath 
wide umbrellas of trouble


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Richard Probst/Flickr







Friday, June 15, 2018

Overnight Passenger (Day 513)


Thirsting for an open door, he wanders 
the aisle, empty at this advanced hour 
of blue laptop glare and sepia lighting.   
Gentle snores, rustling newspapers, and 
muted conversations roll with the motion 
beating, lifelike, beneath his feet.   

Gripping seat backs with both hands—
he does not want to land shamefaced in 
a stranger’s lap—he makes his way toward
the rear of the car, hoping some careless 
conductor foraging for unpunched tickets 
may have left the door ajar. 

Gone are the days, he tells himself, when 
passengers lingered on outside platforms, 
red-tipped cigarettes dangling from numb 
fingers. Longing for a time he never knew, 
he imagines people felt less encumbered 
by rules intended to keep them safe, free 
to choose their risks in pursuing the small 
pleasures that smooth life’s rough edges. 

No open door. Thirst unsated, he slumps 
into an empty seat and writhes, impatient. 
The night’s unbearable dreariness and the 
tepid, musty air sparks a barely-discernible 
panic deep in his gut, leaving little chance 
of sleep, and the relief of dreams.

When at last he disembarks, he gulps the 
cold wind blowing down the platform, and 
squeezes his eyes in exaggerated blinks 
to clear his vision. 

Just then, above his left shoulder, a familiar 
face brightens a tinted window in the next-
to-last car. He starts. His step stutters briefly, 
but when, suddenly alert, he looks again, 
the window is vacant. 

Commuters gush from every door he might 
use to reboard. His discomposure goes 
unnoticed. Around him, intent on its single 
goal, the crowd roils and surges, leaving 
no choice but to surrender to its command 
and be carried forward into the echoing, 
coffee-scented station. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six