Thursday, September 21, 2017

The Noun’s Rosy Glow (Day 246)

In the noun’s rosy glow,
legs stretched out 
in front of me, adjective 
minnows kissing my toes
under the cool gaze
of a tribe of water-spiders,
I lean back into the warmth
of an adverb, the one 
I’d been eyeing since 
we arrived almost 
a week ago. Bill Z. tells me
I shouldn’t run with such
a fast crowd, but I disagree. 
How would he know
of the pillowy comfort 
of the passive tense,
he who never dangled
with a participle in his life?
No, give me my sparkling
modifiers, my lazy verbs,
and I’ll leave the prickly
bits to him, standard-bearer
of brevity, killer of favorites,
unquestionable conqueror
of loquaciousness. 

In honor of William K Zinsser
to whom I promise to revise and edit this poem 
when (if?) the 1462 days end.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Lyrical, Verse 1 (Day 245)

Gate in the wall 
left ajar
on a dare 

Hidden garden 
they met there 

Birds were nesting 
filled the air 

He sang to her 
in the language 
they shared 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public domain

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Happy Endings (Day 244)

tragic fiction, happy endings:
flying away 
to some extended-stay hotel 
in some guy’s magic land   
where partly sunny ruins the day

the world is cruel business, see? 
sometimes this strikes me funny 
like laughing at a funeral, death 
do us part

happy few go on forever as 
they start, those poor nine-lives cats 
and breeding bunnies, whose tales 
aren't much worth 
    writing about
        what I don't want to be 
            interested in what I think 

I'm trying to get at, to know, is the truth: 
life just feels more real when 
you drink your coffee from a broken cup, 
when dawn wakes up 
to greet you—you
with the cold dew on your toes

(c) by Hannah Six
Image: aingnamma 

Monday, September 18, 2017

One Shakes (Day 243)

one shakes off 
the droplets of pewter sky and
the dog-damp air settling in cracks and
the iridescent fairy dust of adolescent longing

because now 
powder puff snowbanks have given way
to faded crevasses   shade-flooded and 
rimmed with quicksilver

how is one to live 
when golden lines of poison goose-step 
down boulevards of half-remembered dreams?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain

Sunday, September 17, 2017

155th Anniversary (Day 242)

Fallen stories gather 
Looming suddenly through vast fog
Buried in verdant fields

Words and image of Antietam National Battlefield, (c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Saturday, September 16, 2017

That Is (Day 241)

That is 
The one 
Is not the day 
It’s not 
The way 
It seems 
By dreams 
That kept you 
Up all night 
The brakes 
So slightly giving 
Down a hill 
Slow me 
Me around this 
Is not 
The ride 
I bought 
But in the end 
It is 
The only ride 
I got

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Axel Hammer

Friday, September 15, 2017

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 
as well as 
sit  a pale egg 
the poison slurry 
fills the cracks
appalling  we are 
egos  where a small 
few head 
he goes all in  
they follow even unto
silver-plated truth he 
traded in 
exchange for 
long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Shape of Sleeping (Day 239)

shape of sleeping human being 
soft warm curves and bones
conform to flat hard concrete  mind 
likely dreaming  imagine  suitcases
rolling luggage wall  odd aimless 
walkers  hair ragged  eyes glazed 
like nothing can help believe 
what lies this narrow kind of town 
tells  a patched stone wall  wobbly 
one-lane street  the bridge is slow 
quiet place for sleeping under
baby-blue blanket  to lay down and 
rest now  once night cold and dark 
falls under there safe is conditional

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Mariamichelle

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

I Tell You No (Day 238)

Because I tell you no, I tell you yes. 
You only have to guess to see me smile. 
Once in a long while, you might let me down. 
I’ll come around again, though if you wait. 

Too late is not the same as yesterday. 
And now the birds have flocked, and now have flown. 
The days have grown so short, and cold, and gray. 
You say I told you no, but I said yes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Pixabay

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Autumnal Indulgence, ca. 1985 (Day 237)

Beneath bunting 
   leaves of wine 
      and gold
air warm with autumn
      we walked together
hands clasped
      we sailed glistening 
black highways 
to the sea 
   and back
       before you 
in the gray dawn
       before you 
I should 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: wikimedia

Monday, September 11, 2017

Maybe We Are (Day 236)

Maybe we 
are not all 
the same. 
some of us 
are upside 
or inside 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-photos

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Before 1980 (Day 235)

Lake-shore picnic lunch
Among beloved strangers
Snowfields in summer

Memories drift, floating home
Spirits caught in ash and stone

In memory of my uncle, Gordon H. Fiske, who passed away this morning.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Lyn Topinka

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Wallflowers (Day 234)

This is what I 
find dismaying:
one year in, we’re 
still replaying 
stories of our 
past golden years 
and gossiping 
about our fears. 

What we need now
is a firm stance:
Wallflowers don’t 
get asked to dance.
Last time we were 
caught unaware—
next round will go
to they who dare.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Emma Frances Logan

Friday, September 8, 2017

Indulgence No.4 (Day 233)

it helps
to flood the stage 
with protest
like hearing every side 
from the wide clear skies  
of my late 
falling  we went out 
undisguised  sweated  
and when 
we came home 
feeling angry  vile  
riled like 
a snake   
an unexpected freight train   
like the days 
of warm rain beyond 
the bruise-green clouds   
we had a precedent 
for the day 
of the storm 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-Photos

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Patience (Day 232)

Collecting damp grass 
clippings on her hands, 
sweet Patience cartwheels 
into the clear 
evening, and nods to 
the butterfly circle. 
Wise, they may be, 
she knows, but excessively 
fond of treacle. Eyeing 
their clutter of clumsy wings, 
she says, to herself: 
“And it shows.” 
In their gossipy klatsch,
the mavens sip tea, 
while catching their friends 
telling lies. 
Fluttering, feigning, reluctant 
to reveal what each knows 
is her own thin disguise, 
they reign over the lawn, 
where Patience is 
yawning, stretched out
beneath a ring of
portly lepidopterans.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: public domain

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

After the Bookstore Closed (Day 230)

about an hour after 
our local bookstore closed
the sky darkened
to green   the wind came   sideways   
from nowhere   thunder 
racked my house and slam-banged 
around   an old man grumbling   
on a brittle winter day   so like 
human beings   their cultures gathered 
around clouds of voices   raising heat 
and ugliness   the sounds distress me   
my body reflecting   not just words but 
the humid heavy breath of the street   
blowsy   a little hot   they keep saying   
our bright star is exploding   our world 
set ablaze   eyes like deep pools 
of wisdom   and fascist fists are
pummeling my heart   if I can fight this 
I might stop falling into the jade sky   
and wake up warm and safe and dry 
but   on the other hand   we could be 
staring down the inscrutable
barrel of a millennial storm

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: terren

Monday, September 4, 2017

Indulgence No. 2 (Day 229)

Sirens, my old photos.
Luring me with silvery songs:
“Real love, true, forevermore—”

Leave me wrecked on the reef of Now,
Nightmares of happiness circling.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, September 2, 2017

Again, He (Day 227)

Today, the voice
On the radio said
It was a great thing
For everyone to see.
Again, he
Looked in the mirror 
of tragedy,
And could only see 
his own good fortune.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original image: Fortepan

Friday, September 1, 2017

The rain, the sturgeon (Day 226)

In the rain the sturgeon wake,
and loll on their cushions of silt, 
whispering about the nervous 
flutters of oncoming winter. 
Fog-stilled boats drift amid 
reflected hillsides, outcrops 
dotted with upside-down sheep 
and leaf-brown streams boring 
into their emerald faces like 
unchecked tears. There, we, 
revolving, hearts stilled with 
wonder, listen to the slowing song 
of two crickets on opposing shores.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Summer's Song (Day 225)

Dry, sharp grasses bend.
Summer whispers, familiar heaven waits.
Stolid ponds gaze skyward.
Tiny blue-bellies do pushups on warm rocks.
Banal toads sigh among singing frogs.

(c) by Hannah Six

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

The Dog & I (Day 224)

You see, the dog 
        & I took 
                a walk 
        this evening 

Our neighborhood 
        came out 
                to greet 
       her—all of her 
favorite friends 

& she just 
        smiled & smiled
                with that 
        particularly canine 
breed of joy

At that moment
        a thought fluttered 
                 down & alit 
        on my shoulder: 
is feeling 
like Everything is 
going to 
all right 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lucky, by H. Six