Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Hearing Him (Day 609)

I like hearing him 
   when he isn’t talking 
when I can hear him 
   thinking 
   of new distractions 
   and glistening 
   attractions
to lure our attention 
   far from the drama 
   we all crave
I like listening 
   to the wheels 
   as they turn, slowly, 
methodically grinding out 
the ineffable nonsense
  of the day. 




(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image from photo provided by US DoD 

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Always Carry a Notebook (Day 608)



A poem   like a wasp
   appears   circles crisply
three times   hovers briefly  
   to see if I have anything 
interesting to offer   

If I flail   pen in hand  
   it may remain   humming 
and buzzing in my ear  
   but   met with indifference
it will disappear in a flash



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Karen Kincy/Pixabay

Monday, September 17, 2018

Hygge Haiku (Day 607)

Steam ribbons waver
Tiny flowers dance and bloom 
Amber-bound meadow

Windows laced with frost
Bird tracks quilt new-fallen snow
Woolen hours unwind


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Hannah Six

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Saturday, September 15, 2018

What She Remembers (Day 605)


She remembers him, sleek, 
elegant in black, on a night in June 
that shimmered like a mirage—
a night when he glanced up, over 
a room bubbling with guests—and 
saw her.
She remembers surprise and delight 
illuminating his black-coffee eyes, 
and the song the orchestra was playing 
as he wound his way across the dance floor,
through dozens of swaying couples,
  to say hello, 
  to say he enjoyed her latest,
  to say she was dazzling,
  to say he knew that, later, she would 
      want to ask his thoughts on...
She remembers him, that night, smiling, 
arrogant, pompous,
remembers telling him she didn’t care 
what he thought, 
remembers the silence as she walked away 
with (she hoped) a haughty tilt to her chin, 
   feeling his gaze trickle down her back,
   feeling him follow when she stepped 
      outside into a music-tinged night
   feeling him walk up behind her and stop, 
      only a foot away, where she could hear 
      the catch in his breath 
before he whispered her name, 
before he said what she remembers 
to this day...


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Emilio Labrador/Flickr (CC BY-2.0)

Friday, September 14, 2018

Spaces Between (Day 604)

Elastic sky, rain-stretched
clouds drawn groundward, 
air roaring, spaces between 
drops fewer and smaller,   
until we, after only a few yards,   
are soaking wet and shivering,   
no longer running for shelter—   
what would be the point? 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Nicolas Vigier/Flickr

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Each blade of grass a story (Day 603)

Each blade of grass   a story
each paving stone   a poem
knitted of lichen & moss
punctuated by five-petaled
sky-blue flowers   so tiny 
they defy the eye of anyone 
who fails to stop & stoop 
over their miniature bower   
(only a select few ever do)   
& so   the stories & the poems 
go largely unnoticed   content 
in their role  delighting 
(mostly)   artists   & amblers  
& the patient companions 
of slow-sniffing dogs  


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay