Tuesday, January 31, 2017

It Begins in the Middle (Day 12)

It begins
in the middle, a burning
and a shutting out
of light, without smoke.
The language is
foreign, yet it
muddies and makes
itself a nuisance
an indifferent ice
of interference, looping
through mind and mouth.
That stagger, drunken
weaving on
ironclad legs, stiff,
The breath goes
in horizontally,
an odalisque, or a body
on a marble slab.
The breath goes
out, a shushing trail.
The breath goes
in, day slides
into night in a slick shallow
motion, like that
of an uncooked egg
slipping off
a spoon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, January 30, 2017

A Haiku for Day 11

No. 11

Pretentious sunset,
Spinnakers ablaze, trailing
Temperate afternoon

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: D Ramey Logan via Wikimedia

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Mere Idea (Day 10)

Mere Idea
By Hannah Six

Circling overhead, too high to see,
Mere idea, wings the faintest blue,
Moth drawn to the flame my sleek pen sparks
When alchemistry ignites the page—
Not today, nor yesterday, but still,
Concentric ripples map the submerged scene
Where resonant Euterpe graced my hand,
Encouraging a well-used nib to flow
And slide across the page, a rising tide.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Uncurated Freedom (Day 9 of 1462)

are you,
so blithely reaching
small, manicured
hands deep inside
the kindness of
uncurated freedom?

You who,
some decades past,
in my steps (and I
in yours),  through
locust-lined arteries
between fresh endings and
tired beginnings—your friends
my acquaintances, my friends
your downfall?

Who, within
your yellow-breasted nest,
do you assume
yourself to be: a rooster
ousting night,
highball at hand,
and thunderstorm,
and kite?

You, lionized,
enthroned, too
high (you think) for anyone
to see
you hoarding scraps lethargic
pigeon-feeders toss,
as they amble by,
remote, books open, reading,
mouths buttoned (with love),
in case they find
your boastful crow
emerging from their
fragile, ruby throats.

Your porcine eyes
belie an unquenchable appetite
for shining, sleek,
suburban luxuries
amid Napoleonic splendor.
Neither history,
nor future, when you
peer, reflect your face
in their vast, silver spheres.

Just now, just
here, you are
a flash
of recognition
in our eyes—squared off
against the truthful
and the true.
You will, when old
is new, still not arrive,
and will, once disembarked,
remain unmourned.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, January 27, 2017

Day 8 of 1462: Passing Joys

Passing Joys
By Hannah Six

the garden of salvation,
you tried a measure
of passing joys—
the graceful
letters of quivering young
lovers, pardons
for indignant dragonflies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Day 7: Ice Floe

Ice Floe
By Hannah Six

Tell me—how do
you decide
where to send the
love the day
serendipity dies?
Tell me—where do
you send the string-tied
parcel of freedom
and future and
fine old trees lining
the streets in the
once-small town where
you first kissed that
lioness of a girl
you'd loved since
she was five years old,
hands sticky
with jam
and the raw adobe
she learned to make
in a kindergarten history
class? Tell me—is it
enough for you
to sleep soundly while
sapphire water works its
way ever farther
into the hairline
fissures that now limn
the ice floe
of your dreams?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Day 6: Bound

By Hannah Six

Bound by his own rage,
Snarling, he lunges and strains.
The chain remains composed.

**Please do not tether/chain your dog! For more information from the Humane Society of the United States, click here.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Day 5: The Door Slams

The Door Slams
By Hannah Six

The door slams and she
lands heavily on
gold naugahyde
by the kitchen table
wedge-heeled slipper
scuffing at the vinyl floor
ticking away the
roughly cigarette-shaped
moments her mind
vague white noise
behind hazel eyes. Afterward
a deep sighing breath
crackling cartilage
a sponge
a two-quart pot.

The door slams and he
allows himself to fall
landing in the palm
of a white vinyl
bucket seat
left leather sole tapping
oncoming headlights unseeing
eyes. Afterward the glare
the choice
young cashier
smile forced the
same gleaming
fog-frosted highway.

The door slams
she remains
reclining tattered guide
in hand
television snickering
in the middle distance.
Keys dropped on
the dull black shelf
bag rustling an apology
as he
swirling wake
of smoke.
Yes, she would
like pineapple sauce
but only on the vanilla side.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, January 23, 2017

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Day 3: Apples

By Hannah Six

It seems the simplest
confusion in
the world to look
upon an apple and
think: Pear

To scoop its fair
golden heft into
the curve of
your palm, the faint
coral blush pinkening
your fingertips,
and firm siren flesh
setting your teeth
to aching

It could
go either way,
this fruit.
One could hardly
be blamed
for confusing
the Cameo with
the Anjou.

But...bite and
taste. You see?
That rustic,
rough and ready,
toothsome tart
hardly compares
with a dainty, creamy,
floral-scented pear.

The simplest
error, but
the difference
is clear:
Pears are suspect
(their bruises
show, their bodies
are soft as sin),

while apples—from
Eve's tentative bite to
frozen pies—
are honest.
Their glory lies
in fairy tales, where
maidens die and live
again to kiss
the juice-stained
lips of cavaliers.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Day Two: Woman in the Store

Woman in the Store
By Hannah Six

When she talks that way,
the woman in the store,
I wonder
why that little girl
so afraid so angry so
astounded by her
power that
—nodding, smiling—
she permits Them-Him
to do That,
hour after hour, only later
stopping, dropping, rolling,
dampening the flame;

and yet, the villain whose
tarnished face she screams
at in her feverish
dreams is not
the panther she abhors
but some tame gazelle.
The arrow of her
rage at once
this gentle creature,
whose sage wisdom
is, in truth, the pure
clear light of day.
"Wake up!"
admonishes the crone,
"Grown up and strong, your dreams
belong to no one but

She is no child,
no one can save her,
save her
mother, stoned on
Berkeley concrete,
just to do it all again, again.
Says: It's time to grab
the reins, now, lean
into those growing pains;
be seen AND heard;
don't smile, look plain;
beat them all at their own
game; stop hiding;
deepen her girlish voice;
and lengthen her mincing stride;
because we have somewhere
to go and only our own
legs to get us there.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, January 20, 2017

Day One

January 20, 2017
By Hannah Six

Among the darkening
crowds picking out forgotten
thorns, unravelling their web
of truth and beauty,
a single thread knots and
doubles back on itself
again and again. Cold with fear
that shimmers like sand
or water, they smile.

Red and black,
damp and cool as Satan's circus
silent below the long, gray
grizzled clouds,
their hearts yearn
for what has already been
folded away. Each raises
a rigid arm, conducting
a secret symphony of suffering.

Shielded from shattered
promises soft as celadon,
Mystery weeps, recalling
an unimaginable sweetness,
as he, tiny flame dull as brass,
winds her veil,
his forked tongue sharp
and bittersweet—
a snail lodged against her ribs.

(c) 2017, Hannah Six