Saturday, November 30, 2013

Light Falls (Poem 242)

The radio sings 
sweetly and soft
light falls 
from the window
in a gentle splash
of that particular 
honeyed gold 
so utterly irresistible 
to well-fed cats and 
winter-weary women.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Friday, November 29, 2013

Faded Flannel (Poem 241)

Evening turns down
the moon and night 
falls. I hear you
calling my name--
but, no... It's just
yesterday's dream
following me as I
crawl between these
faded flannel sheets.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Fresh Pot (Poem 240)

"Well, at least that's over with!"
She pulled the dish towel 
from her waistband with 
a locker-room-worthy snap.
Those of us lingering
over coffee at the table
held our breath for a moment 
until, from the next room,
the television's hum 
broke the silence. Relief
seeped into the room, with 
the fragrance of a fresh
pot of coffee. The conversation 
continued, and someone 
reached out to cut another 
slice of pecan pie.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Gratitude (Poem 239)

Three days ago, the sun 
shone. We were filled with joy 
at the sight of it. Yesterday, too,
it woke us, brilliant light slanting 
through the blinds, and we 
smiled back. Today, when 
a furtive cloud caused a few 
moments of dimness, we scowled. 
"Oh, no!" we cried.
Gratitude is a demanding mistress. 
What would happen if 
you were as charmed the 
thousandth time he opened 
the car door for you 
as you were on your first date?
How would the world change if, 
when she bakes your favorite 
chocolate cake on your birthday
once more, you tell her you are 
astonished, and grateful? 
If what seems common and 
to-be-expected are, in reality, 
nothing more than abundant 
miracles we have not earned, 
do not deserve? This joy
that hauled you out of despair
is, like all things, impermanent--
it does not belong to you.
Open your heart to the coquette 
who, ignored, robs you of wonder,
and you will find her, instead,  
a generous and loyal friend, who 
--when you've forgotten today's
good fortune--will sit with you,
spread an album across your knees,
and show you her pictures.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Waves (Poem 238)

Indigo, aqua
Ocean rises heavily
Then folds into waves

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Monday, November 25, 2013

One Eye Open (Poem 237)

We never wore shoes
in the summertime, or
hardly ever, 
anyway. We ran wild,
clambered through creeks
and the dusty eaves
of each others' houses,
hacked through brambles
and roamed across town
in search of a friend,
or a swim, or a perfect,
ripe peach whose honey-
sweet juice would gush
like love over our chins
and hands. And all 
the time, we were barefoot,
keeping one eye open
for glass shards glinting
in the hard sun, and 
the other open for glimpses
of the women we would become.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

El Camino Real, Burlingame, CA
Photo: Wikipedia Commons

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Things Changed (Poem 236)

Things changed and change 
   changed and then 
her normal life was lost
   and strange   far out of 
range beyond  those mountains 
    there and those ones too 
she cared about her people 
there and cared for these 
as well    but time will tell who 
cares for her 
sometimes    he's walking 
back and walking    backtracking 
back to her in shoes whose soles 
are worn    his shoulders warm 
with sun and hard 
with snow    he'll go back some 
day and when he does she knows 
she'll pack her bags 
and head his way and walk 
those roads    touching 
with each step she steps
the bits of sole he left 
behind him when 
things changed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Soft (Poem 235)

and we become so soft
summer cool and winter 
warm    we whose ancestors 
swathed continents on foot 
by horse or wagon   each 
exquisite day in fine detail   
crocus nosing a ribbon of snow   
snapping mornings   frost 
on quilts   tang of woodsmoke   
swirling leaves   melting summer 
days in wool and collars and 
sleeves and stays   you hold 
the door   toss keys   we peel 
off layers as we go   we shed 
our strength like sweat and salt 
and subway grime swept 
seaward by the shower's cool 
pulse   an end-of-day oasis    
our stern ghosts close the door 
on our laughter as they leave

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six


Friday, November 22, 2013

Betrayal (Poem 234)

vacuum bedroom 
duster shelves 
tchotchkes motes
journal beige carpet 
pages flexed   blue ink blue
lines blue 
scrawl eyes 
his mouth his mouth his mouth 
lies voices traffic crying
past the past the past   door 
street floor boxes tearing 
ripping tossing    promises
day night day night day 
hands breath head down
eyes closed 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Gift, II (Poem 233)

When the 
    bow is untied, 
when the 
    paper is torn, 
when the 
    seal is broken, 
when the 
    top is pulled 
and the tissue 
    cast aside, 
the gift 
    is revealed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

(Image: Pomegranate Council)

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Gift (Poem 232)

She untied the bow
And when she opened the box
The sunrise burst forth

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

On Choosing Wisely (Poem 231)

I sat down next 
to my cat and 
asked where 
I'd gone
She winked, 
and said I'd 
been singing 
to a distant flock 
of  birds who hadn't 
heard a single song 
in years. 
So I dried my tears
and got cozy 
in bed. Then I 
sang to my 
cat instead.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Monday, November 18, 2013

Sketches (Poem 230)

Two sketches, beloved
no longer. Closed shutters, 
forever. She was not enough.

Small, self-effacing 
once again, being passed
to the next blank imagination.
Still, time will tell.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Is Spring... (Poem 229)

Crumpled, brown, curled in
on itself like a small bird's wing, 
a lingering leaf so gently cradled
on this bed of new snow. Is spring just
a distant memory, or a fledgling hope?

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Words Like Silk (Poem 228)

Like wool, like silk,
words wind around 
and slip through
my fingers. I bend
them, knot them,
coax them into soft, 
pleasing, useful shapes, 
always aware that 
it is not my own
shoulders the final
product must fit. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Friday, November 15, 2013

Fraught With Danger (Poem 227)

The path is narrow 
and fraught with danger. 
A cascade of tiny, five-petaled 
yellow flowers pouring down 
a rough-and-tumble stone 
fence, threatens the heart 
with memories of a bright spring 
day by a snow-swollen river. 
The vivid pastels of a rainbow 
glimpsed unexpectedly during 
a mid-storm sun break, glowing 
against graphite and white clouds, 
puts one in peril of recalling 
dreams of a future once promised, 
but perhaps not received. 
And, most dangerous of all,
the intricate imbroglio of
improvised jazz, framed 
by the undulating rustle of voices 
and staccato ring of glass and silver,
educing one glimpse of love 
so enduring, so captivating, 
that a heart, once entangled-- 
having slipped off the narrow 
path of indifference--would surely 
remain ensnared for all time.

(c) by Hannah Six

Photo: Stan Shebs

Thursday, November 14, 2013

What's True (Poem 226)

What I say now
isn't always true. 
What's true is you, standing 
like some ancient blue and 
silver idol under the full moon. 
What's true is the blanket 
of mist that shrouds the valleys 
and damp fields in amethyst 
silence at dawn. 
What's true is the long, slow sway 
of the mid-day ferry between 
kelp scented sea and crisp clear sky, 
and the first joyous leap when 
those elusive dolphins burst from 
the wave off the bow. 
What's true is the sweet, slightly-musty scent 
of faded elegance and the creak 
of the stairs under our feet. 
No, what I say now 
isn't always true. 
But what I knew then, was.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Charley's Haiku (Poem 225)

Taunting yellow rump 
and that damn curlicue tail... 
You're dead, crocheted mouse!

(c) 2013, by Charley and Hannah Six

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

The Next Salvation

I want to tell you about the time 
   I, as a child, rode a palomino bareback 
   at a hippy commune, and it ran wild 
   toward a closed gate that it would have 
   jumped, but for the heroics of a naked   
   guy on a chestnut gelding.
I want to tell you about my family's first dog, 
   adopted at the cusp of my teen years,
   with whom I took long walks and 
   had endless soul-baring talks, until 
   she was given away.
I want to tell you about my gray hamster, 
   whose curiosity got the best of him    
   when he escaped his cage once 
   too often, and came face to face 
   with the cat on duty.
I want to tell you about one of my goldfish, 
   who lived seven years in a bowl 
   I wish I'd changed more often, and 
   for whom my grandfather cared 
   after I left for college.
I want to tell you about three of my most-beloved 
   cats, and how--after 14 years--
   my heart shatters 
   a little every day because 
   I had to leave them behind 
   to escape a life-threatening situation.
I want to tell you about one of life's 
   true miracles, which flows in 
   through the cracks and crevices in 
   the walls I've built around my heart, 
   softens the edges of past losses, 
   takes my hand, and leads me--its
   willing victim--toward the next 
   beloved, the next heartbreak, 
   the next salvation.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Monday, November 11, 2013

Blanket of Hope (Poem 223)

In the sky, fragile 
beauty, a shimmering 
memory transformed
by magical hues,
their shivering petals 
rustle a scarce-heard 
song of blooming 
dawn and sunset glow,
a blanket of hope, drawn
around the fretful fallen 
and the world, lost 
in heedless slumber 
around them

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

 (Photo: Eric Hill)

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Floating (Poem 222)

Crows like bickering 
   demons foraging 
     in the rustling cornfield    
cicadas endlessly 
     whirring whirring 
   in the cedars   the whole 
world bleached 
white and gold and dry under 
   a dazzling haze of moisture 
      and dust and pale blue sky 
and    me    
alone    floating 
   on my back 
in the neighbor's 
     above-ground pool     
seduced by the chilling
illusion    that I am the last 
human-being    on earth 
in the oppressive   hush
   of a workday afternoon 
     in the middle of the week

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Saturday, November 9, 2013

A Day Like This (Poem 221)

On a day like this   day 
turns to gray to twilight 
to white to gray again and    
finally to night    what else 
can you do but flip 
through a magazine    or climb in 
bed with a book    or you 
can build a fire and toast
marshmallows and watch movies 
or paint or write or knit or curl 
up tight with your lover under
cover of a fluffy duvet 
and a winter day

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Friday, November 8, 2013

Then It Happens (Poem 220)

going back becomes halfway    
at loose ends on glinting pavement
clammy after a sultry city 
rain    no one to tell 
me about neighborhoods 
I already know 
how to fraternize when ruddy 
open friends have been drinking 
caramel-colored whiskey    I try 
to call but fumble and say 
I miss you silly chatty you    finally
laughing she puts you on
and wraps you around her golden
shoulders before finally going 
out    then it happens 
and once more 
that was a long time ago 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Rough Cover (Poem 219)

blanket of unconsciousness, dull,
the weft, dense, fuzzy weeds, 
mementos of a life, the rough 

weave of the real, vast world
linen, strong and durable, coarse
wool, speckled, here and there, 
with grass, leaves, and 
the occasional surprise

of honeyed January heat,
when tender petals unfurl into 
the oncoming white, 
then fade, wither, and fall

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Lace (Poem 218)

Brilliant as a Bahamian 
beach, sinuous as a flute 
in a Mozart concerto,
glossy silk unfurls 
and furls patiently, 
a whisper guided by 
a dream and a gentle touch. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Syrian Lullaby (Poem 217)

There is a sweetness in the air, 
but we fear it may be poison gas.
There is a slight chill in the air, 
but autumn's lost its charm. 
There is a peaceful silence here, 
since the soldiers left, at last. 

There is a sweetness in the air, 
a broth of weeds and bones. 
There is a slight chill in the air,
without my child in my arms. 
There is a peaceful silence here, 
now that we've left our homes. 
There is a sweetness in the air.
There is a sweetness...

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Monday, November 4, 2013

MElting* (Poem 216)

Some days I'm the Wizard;
Others, I feel like 
     Wicked Witch goo.
Nothing for it but to rest,
So, for tonight, 
    this rhyme will have to do.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

*Thanks for understanding!
By the way... ME = Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. You can learn more here:

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Winter Verse (Poem 215)

It's winter 
     And my toes are cold
It's winter
     And the coffee's brewed
It's winter
     And the does grow bold
Searching for a meal
Where sweet green grass once grew

It's winter 
     And the frost has formed
It's winter
     And the fire's bright
It's winter 
     And your hands are warm
In the brown wool gloves
I knit for you last night

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Last Apple (Poem 214)

When the tree flowered
We felt such joy, but today
The last apple fell.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Arnstein Rønning

Friday, November 1, 2013

The Peak (Poem 213)

Like silver, the light, burnished
and reflecting the glow of
the sun's loving gaze

Like gold, the clouds, billowing
forth with abandon from 
their own illuminated dreams

Like bronze, the peak, streaming
and resplendent in the last rays
of the day before the storm 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

(Mt. Rainier, November Sunset)