Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Rhumba (Day 664)


man dances  rhumba 

hand on the waist

of an invisible partner 

she has not been easy 

to lead  relentless birdlike 

interest quick and sharp 

turning and twisting in his 

arms  glancing at her own 

feet to assure herself 

she will not be carried 

away  working furiously 

at the tragic melange  

she enjoys  never being 

asked to dance  with him 

or any man  he finds it funny  

he’d believed she could  

apparently  he was wrong



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six


Image: Vernon and Irene Castle, 

by Frances Benjamin Johnston

Monday, November 12, 2018

Skeins (Day 663)

We wound the days 
in careful skeins, to save 
in a secret corner.
I knit them now, one by one, 
reforming each pine-tinged 
memory, dimmed by dust 
and age, windtossed, 
confused pages gleaned 
from disembodied books.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Sunday, November 11, 2018

New Wishes (Day 662)

Beneath a pillow of disenchantment, 

she placed her box of fine, bespoke jewels.

 Replacing lost hopes and dreams can be 

hard work—new wishes only come at a cost.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Michelle Jo (CC BY 3.0)

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Redwood Days (Day 661)

In a soporific fog  we slipped 

between the needles  blue 

and glazed  dripping january rain  

softly underfoot   the beds of fallen 

soldiers  gold and dead  in passageways 

of mountain kings we tread forbidden 

spring-green fields  the shining trophy 

was the chase  end-of-day faces 

turned toward a quivering sky  

our metronome of ragged breath 

marked each timeless tensile hour


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Friday, November 9, 2018

Sentinels (Day 660)

gliding swans, serene sentinels 

in your sea of fallen stars—

how quiet you are, slipping 

among the shimmering fins and 

tails of our ungranted wishes


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels


Thursday, November 8, 2018

Nostalgic Sway (Day 659)

Slow sway swings a band
Lovers fall back, hands embraced
Pale wood flows like sand

Emerging poetry breathes
Faint mist peels back clouds of years


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: detail of a photo 
by Liza/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

Could it be (Day 658)


Could it be that 

there’s really nothing 

left to say?


Maybe the 

day  night  year  term 

has been going on

far too long.


Maybe I’ve run out 

of words, and will 

never again be able 

to write a poem 

or a story. (Well,

that’s not likely.)


Maybe I stayed up 

too late, lights ablaze, 

(re)finishing that book 

I return to for comfort 

when the world 

feels frightening 

or ugly. Or both. 


Maybe He started pecking 

away at his keyboard 

early. Today, 

he got the worm. Someday 

soon, the worms will win.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six