Friday, November 17, 2017

Him (Day 303)

Snowflakes fall like coins 
from a lurid coral sky. 

Left out in the cold, 
he chases them, 

grasps at the shattered air. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019 via Pixabay

Thursday, November 16, 2017

One of Me (Day 302)

There is one of me
and one of me and none
of the other  an empty chamber
where sound and light are
deadened  the way they are
when leaves fall and pile up
in rusty old heaps  like shredded 
paper turning to dust in the gutters
or when the trolley stops running 
because the tracks lay beneath 
a blanket of snow  spread smooth 
and white as buttercream  surface 
excruciatingly unmarred  irresistible 
except  instead of two lines 
of footprints  there are only mine  
and only mine and none 
of the other in the empty space 
to my right  from where only 
the purest light glistens 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

A dream is... (Day 301)

A dream is a question, 
a lock, with thousands of keys 

A key is a dreamer of doors, 
a gentle-eyed carpenter, willing 
to feed your cat if you have 
to leave before he does

A door is its own kind 
of small death, a sacrifice 
on the altar
where the heart is

Death is a welcome 
mat, next to which is 
a basket with a little sign saying: 
Please take off your shoes 
before entering.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: BloggerStefan

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Trail of Crumbs (Day 300)

We sliced the days 
thin as fluttering kite tails, 

savored every hour, and, 
in case we lost ourselves 

along the way, we left 
a trail of crumbs, remnants 

of a life that love consumed,
to guide us home 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration for Hansel and Gretel by Alexander Zick (1845–1907)

Monday, November 13, 2017

Unbroken (Day 299)

having a heart
that had never been
or a spirit
that had known
only joy

the topography
of a life 
like that   
unmarred by yearning
unchanging   unearned
a bleak and  
featureless expanse
as far as the eye could see

like awakening
yawning and stretching  
into a nightmare
of eternal ennui
from a dream
rich with longing
and love
and loss

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Saturday, November 11, 2017

On a Bench (Day 297)

On a gray bench she rests 
with faded hands  
eyes half open to the forest 
at her feet  a blanket 
of pink sand delights her 
senses  rinsed clean by 
pure turquoise 
dreams of Saturdays and 
lazy afternoons floating 
in circles beneath 
a gliding hawk while 
dogs barked and 
distant mowers groomed 
the knotted fringe of day

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: MabelAmber

Friday, November 10, 2017

Wanderings (Day 296)

rain soaked wanderings and clear 
soft mistakes  summer traced 
familiar playground paths where 
flooded streams of shade spread 
in a flood  returning sleep suggests 
once steady worlds of gardens cooled 
by the familiar fluttering moon 

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Image: PatMorgan

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Commuter (Day 295)

remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 
and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 
and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 
collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 
a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 
of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 
got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 
at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 
travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 
parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Greed (Day 294)

Everything some people have 
is not enough.

Insatiable, merciless, their hunger 
prowls without respite.

Mouths agape, squawking for 
more, they devour

the world whole, spitting 
out the bones. 

Afterward, when it’s obvious
there’s nothing left, 

they suckle and gnaw 
at the emptiness, 

until it turns them 

(c) by Hannah Six

Photo: Per Harald Olsen

Note: I wrote today’s poem in response to the following prompt from poet Kelli Russell Agodon:
“Write a seven-line poem about one of the 7 Sins that only contains seven words in each of the lines.”

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Her Place in the World (Day 293)

She is small, 
barely tall enough 
to reach 
the first swinging hoop 
from the little metal platform 
welded onto the jungle gym. 
So, when the big 
blond-haired boy 
with the raspy voice 
taunted her, 
she froze. 

And when he shoved her 
out of line and 
she landed hard 
on the concrete, 
she remained silent, 
and the other children 
did nothing, 
their eyes averted 
in fear and shame 
and the mild disgust 
the world feels for victims. 

Later, she recounted the story 
while her mother and 
grandmother cooked dinner. 
When she showed them 
her scraped elbow, 
her mother said: 
"What did you do 
to make him shove you?" 
Her grandmother added: 
"He sounds like 
a very sad little boy. 
You should pray for him." 

That day she learned 
about her place 
in the world, 
about what she could 
expect, and what she 
should tolerate. 

So, when her husband 
screamed at her for buying 
creamy peanut butter 
instead of crunchy, 
she found herself 
thinking how sorry 
he must be, and that
she needed to pray 
for him.

Intimate-partner violence (IPV), or domestic violence (DV), affects all of us in some way. 

For example: mass shootings significantly impacted children: 25 percent of mass shooting fatalities (211) were children. This is primarily driven by mass shootings related to domestic or family violence, in which over 40 percent of fatalities were children. (

 For a wealth of information about IPV/DV, or to seek *confidential* help, please visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline website, or call the Hotline at 1-800-799-7233

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Andreas160578

Monday, November 6, 2017

Mirror (Day 292)

Shivering mirror
petals punctuate 
each breath  rising
and subsiding
rippling outside-in  

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: AdrianKirby

Sunday, November 5, 2017

What is there left to say? (Day 291)

What is there left 
to say?
The walls 
   of grief 
   and greed 
were built to last. 
And those of us with 
picks and hammers
to act 
fast enough to
   make a difference.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Click here to learn about gun violence and how you can make a difference.

Image: KariGamb08

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Some Days Are Like That (Day 290)

Some days are like that 
special stone, gleaming 
like a gem among 
the shattered shells and 
flabby mats of kelp—
the one you plucked 
from the sand, and held 
out in your cold hand 
for my admiration, before 
tucking it in your pocket, 
for luck. Now, dry and
bleached, it lives deep 
in my dresser drawer, 
surprising me sometimes,
when it appears in my 
cold, outstretched hand, 
so far away from home.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Isle of Skye, FrankWinkler 

Friday, November 3, 2017

In All the World (Day 289)

Not a care 
    in all 
    the world
for us
   our dreams 
   our lies  our loves
   our losses
beyond our own

     none will 

for a single 
moment  consider 
or disregard 
our empires of 

we can 
rest peacefully
in this 
knowledge  take 
solace  and 
breathe awhile. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Earth and her moon from Saturn’s rings 
NASA/JPL-Caltech/Space Science Institute

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Secret Roads (Day 288)

Trickling valleys slide
toward the water, dark 
as cedars standing 
sentinel, concealing 
secret roads 
and urgent passageways, 
calming the nervous, 
fog-brightened night.
Here, joy turns 
to wonder, grief 
to contemplation. 
New growth, a tender 
haze of green, emerges
before the forest’s 
detached gaze, 
in stillness,
ancient consolations.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

Native Intelligence (Day 287)

He comes and goes 
under cover of darkness, 
even on a sunlit day,
the soft click click click 
of his bike gears
often the only sound 
giving him away 
when he wheels it, 
scowling and stomping, 
under my window
because he does 
not like to work.
It’s a shame, really, 
his native intelligence, 
uncultivated and neglected, 
despite the myriad 
advantages that 
ripened and fell, plum-like,
onto the green grass 
around him while 
he idled on the lawn 
outside the modest but clean
white vinyl-sided house
where he grew shabby
and thick with weeds. 
His few friends--
partners in crime, 
his mother joked 
each night when he came in
--might have considered 
his descent a warning, 
had they grown up
in a town worth 
staying in--or even 
a town worth leaving.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TheoLeo via Pixabay