Saturday, May 27, 2017

They Talk Backwards (Day 129)

Photo courtesy US Government 

they talk backwards and upside 
down in an underwater way 
that makes wind chimes shiver 
and sends a chill down our spines

so shameful we shrink from 
their lack of embarrassment 
is arrogance the same 
as confidence do you think

dear world please don't hate 
all of us we pray but we know 
that their spilled ink has 
stained our fingers too 



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, May 26, 2017

A Lemon Falls (Day 128)


A lemon falls.
My grandmother boils it.
A cougar waits out the heat.
She came to me in a dream.
Mine or hers I don't know.
Waterfalls and lemons fall.
Grandma rolls the hot lemon 
with the heel of her hand.
Under a tree in the cool dust.
She squeezes the warm juice 
and pulp into a coffee cup.
Water falls from pointed leaves 
high up in the eucalyptus trees.
After adding honey she settles 
herself on the edge of my bed.
The drops sound like footsteps. 
She feeds me the lemon syrup
a few tablespoons at a time.
At midday the baking dust 
smells faintly of pine resin.
Then she sets the cup on my 
nightstand and lays her cool 
dry hand against my forehead.
Fog shapes pass like quiet people 
outside our lace-curtained windows.
Her smile is like the rising sun.
It soothes me.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, May 25, 2017

In the Window (Day 127)


Fifteen minutes and a gnawing hunger 
turned me inappropriately toward 
the local donut store where in college 
before we avoided sugar and fat 
I used to go with my roommate 
for Sunday morning debriefings and 
perhaps one of us arrived once 
or twice in a black dress and high heels 
with a sinuous swagger no one called
the walk of shame even if it was 
pretty lame to sit in the window across from 
your groundbreaking computer engineer 
roommate who spent her evening building 
things you still don't understand while 
you flirted in vain and looked sexy 
in your fuck-me shoes which her mother 
would have killed her for wearing 
not that she ever considered it being 
far more practical than you and therefore 
not majoring in Victorian Poetry.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six





PS. Roommate is often in one's thoughts, and one wishes her much joy.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Labor Away (Day 126)

 
We labor away 
at our own 
vain remembrances, 
loathe to release 
the wild efforts 
of our dreams, 
to regain what little 
ground we may have 
lost, or to capture 
more in preparation 
for a shortage
in the hidden and
untrustworthy future. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Grand Lady (Day 125)

 
Abandoned House, Hagerstown MD

Never a grand lady,
Like those northern upstarts. 
You were even, perhaps, 
A bit careworn, compared 
With your neighbors, whose 
Fresh red confidence eclipsed 
Your plain-Jane simplicity. 
Or was your appearance 
Purposely misleading? 
You might have jealously 
Guarded the golden joy pulsing 
In your veins, familiar warmth 
Radiating comfortably 
To the scrolled tip of each 
finely-turned bone. Glimpses
Of your elegant strength,
Your faultless honesty, 
Your unwavering generosity 
—Visible only to those who 
Knew you, or who thought to look 
Beyond the customary trimmings—
Gifts you bestowed intimately,
Their secrecy lending them 
A covetable air of pricelessness.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, May 22, 2017

Two Haiku, Two Senryu (Day 124)

Photo: Marabuchi
Birds versus squirrels 
Locked in eternal battle 
Sharing the same tree

***

Rabbit stretches tall
Craning his neck to nibble
Sweet, young poppy leaves

***

Friday: hot humid
Saturday: sweater weather
Mid-Atlantic May

***

Chic woman with scarf
Insouciantly knotted
matches her flowers



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six



Sunday, May 21, 2017

Shore Town (Day 123)

Photo: Cape May, NJ, by Hannah Six

Summer surprised the pretty shore
Rustling like tumbled velvet
Filling cottages, roads, and sand
Crowding up the little station

After breakfast, tourists appeared,
Dutifully marching beachward,
Arms filled with coolers and bright towels,
Claiming the same spots every morning.

The sun climbed higher in the sky,
Parents and children chafed,
Arms full, they soon retreated inland,
Dripping ice cream on the sidewalks.

Late afternoon, clean and revived,
They emerged again to eat
Booking restaurants and filling up bars,
Then going to bed early and watching TV.

After a week of sun and sand,
Growing restless and bored,
They paid their inn bills and headed home,
Leaving behind old receipts and brochures.

The siege continued for three long months,
Leaving the whole town weak,
As summer ended they sighed with relief,
And closed up most of the kitschy boutiques.

Soon, winter enveloped the pretty shore, 
Windy, bitter, and cold.
The people wrapped up in their woolen coats
And rejoiced in their empty beach.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six