Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Cleaning Party: A poem and a prompt for Day 398

After writing and posting nearly 400 poems in as many days, I’m not afraid to admit to the occasional lack of inspiration—or energy. When that happens, I fall back on an ever-evolving collection of favorite prompts/games/tools. 

Today, for instance, I took a trip to a random word generator, where I collected 28 words (24 the first time, plus an additional four later on). Sometimes I only use six or eight words; it just depends on my mood. I cut and paste the words into a document, and after shuffling, sorting, and adding a word here and there, inspiration (usually) strikes. 

I came up with the following poem this afternoon... I left it quite “raw” to illustrate the process. Ordinarily, I’d build a longer, or more polished, piece on this intriguing (to me) skeleton.

Cleaning Party
arms uncovered to 
their elbows
swanky visitors performed 
lively wingstrokes 
with their hands, revealing 
fabulous details, 
like vintage grates, that render 
the current, homely place 
almost likeable

outdoors, in the winter 
garden, fallacious discussion 
absorbed the bitter jobless, 
sprawled like 
recent memories amongst 
the faded begonias 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Original image: The Preservation Station 

Monday, February 19, 2018

When You Rise (Day 397)

When you rise above 
the clouds  say hello 
to the blue for me
memorize its myriad 
hues and shades from 
ice to indigo  tell me if 
you can see the stars 
when you look up or 
if they are hidden by that 
golden light warming 
your flushed cheeks  rest 
a moment on 
the terrible wind 
that bears you aloft 
and look down on 
the soft undulations of 
the sea stretching like 
bleached cotton sheets 
beneath you  only the quilts 
on our shared bed 
can enfold you as softly  
only my arms support you 
with the strength of that 
high gale and 
the roughest tides 
of time we long to sail 
together will quiet when 
you are near again

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: macayran via Pixabay

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Just Looking (Day 396)

Just looking
at the peeling paint
and thinking: Something 
is different. 

You see, I needed 
those dreams 
about my hands 
falling apart
to remember—How 
fortunate I was
to have not
locked the door.

Then I realized: 
You had already left 
the room.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: toufik Lerari via Wikimedia Commons

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Breathless (Day 395)

for the longest  that  want  time making
myself  that electric blood-singeing 
current  making you  lingering darkening
that look  widening  that rising attraction  
moving  leaning toward  when entering 
a room where another is  a moment
already  waiting a fraction of   that 
attraction too slow  long  years eagerly
outpaced  too lately  too forward  ancient 
foldings inward  unforetold distraction  
enough  just that  enough  I am  I don’t  
want that  I want that  I didn’t  but I do

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Jack Fiallos via Wikimedia

Friday, February 16, 2018

Those Unfrightened of the Dark (Day 394)

Blue buffeting those old wet bricks,
cars rumble over cobblestones 
too slippery for walking 
when the chestnuts shed their leaves. 
Night falls, burdens lighten for some, 
the daytime world is squirreled away, 
protected until sunrise. 
Those unfrightened of the dark may
wander, read, dance, play, fight, drink, 
and hope their eyes adjust, or risk 
the quicksand of nostalgia.
If the song’s not right, the perfume 
floating on a summer breath—jasmine, 
sweat, a baby-soft trainwreck of scent
—might lure the unfortunate into their 
own sweet mysteries, tangled as kudzu 
in the trees that line the roads back home.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Skeeze/Pixabay

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Black Coffee in Handpainted Mug (Day 393)

too bitter 
to ignore 
the purr it 
releases  finding 
purchase on 
the porcelain 
glaze  cobalt 
devoid of 
the grit and 
one might expect 
on an everyday
object made 
of clay intricately 
painted by 
tired-eyed woman 
in a dusty 
crowded room
so far away 
I cannot begin 
to imagine 
the language
she speaks
in her dreams.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

The Painter (Day 392)

summer’s verdant, musky vines 
painter consumed by her canvas

wildflower ghosts of spring
in a frigid, well-lit space

mushroom-colored, winter day
brushes slay dragons of gloom

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Helen Galloway McNicoll, The Apple Gatherer (c. 1900), oil on canvas