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

Sunday, March 17, 2019

Boy with a stick (Day 788)

He swings 
at a tree, beating 
back the forest 
with a stick

dark eyes 
flashing, battling 
dragons, or, perhaps, 
his father

blow after blow,
the tree endures
what his enemy
could not

until, defeated 
by acceptance, 
he drops his weapon,  
slumps homeward.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: West Woods, Antietam Battlefield

Saturday, March 16, 2019

Spring Tanka (Day 787)

Pollen gilds the breeze

Silently, pink petals fall—

Drifting, candied snow


Distant peaks cloaked in pure white

Still lost in dreams of winter

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Original photo: US BLM