Friday, March 31, 2017

Loose Lips (Day 72)

Their slack mouths mutter.
As we know, spells cast witches.
Banks ooze evidence.

Mawkish fear casts a shadow.
Don't worry: Loose lips sink ships.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, March 30, 2017

All Wars (Day 71)

All wars waste time.
White waves pursue the plundered sand.
Settling, smoke drifts.

Long days of slick sidewalk talk.
Lovers doze and cafés wilt.

(c) by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Jealousy (Day 70)

Sinuous jealousy enters, 
Haughty and graceful,
Moving silently
On small orange paws.
I've been petting 
The other one again,
And that is, obviously,

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Let Me (Day 69)

Let me
sing to             cry for
    that the water I offer
will be soft
     that the fire in my heart
will burn
    blue as lightning
                               as tears
music             bruises
will heal
      your heart
           when you lose
what         holds you      up
will not
            in unbreakable time
which will
      continue to pass
            like a dream
you        will

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

***No human being is illegal.***

Image: Ojibwa village at Sault Ste. Marie in 1846, Paul Kane (1810-71)

Monday, March 27, 2017

This Moment (Day 68)


This moment 
was born 
strong, capable, 
    crisp as silk 
    or commitment, 
calling to mind
   a wide array 
   of delicate growth.
Heir to 
    every story 
    ever lived, 
to the ocean 
    of unfathomable time
    leading up to 
this instant—
senescent, now, fragile.
     hold it gently, 
          and with care.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Hotarugari, Firefly Catching, by Mizuno Toshikata. 
Ukiyoe, Japanese woodblock print, 1891. 

Sunday, March 26, 2017

On Another Day (Day 67)

Photo: Batsv, via Wikimedia Commons

On another day,
I might have worried, but
The mockingbirds told me 
Today is a good day
To be careless,
To let the wind run
Its fingers through my hair,
To plant a dozen irises
Along the stone path,
And to look up, 
Into the midnight sky, 
Where a host
Of shimmering stars
Are consolation for
Even the darkest night

(c) 2015, by Hannah Six

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Industrial Flat (Day 66)

He just sits there and reads
the newspaper in our industrial flat
up north. Outside our windows,
the neighborhood blends in
with the low, pewter sky
and the book of poems
I've been reading.

From where I sit, I see
flocks of flustered starlings,
yards of disintegrating trains,
and the memories of workers
who once stood in line,
coffee steaming from between
their parted lips, to punch in
at the time-clock downstairs.

(Said clock left intact in
what I often imagine as
an attempt at architectural irony).

Some of the memories are vulnerable,
some blocked or shocking, while others
are blue as sea glass. The clouds shift and
settle, exposing a sliver of bright sky,
like a sudden smile.

He puts down his paper and sighs.
I get up from my favorite chair,
cross to the gray tweed sofa,
and sit next to him.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, March 24, 2017

Far as the eye can see (Day 65)

Photo: Laura A Macaluso, PhD

supple, undulating 
highway, delicate fissured lace  
thrown hastily over shoulders 
that stretch from azure to indigo, 
far as the eye can see,
urging a wandering heart to dream 
of prairies and hares 
and homemade jam
beckoning the restless soul
follow me: siren song sherry-sweet 
on the back of the tongue 
follow me: warm as an old woolen 
blanket on an autumn evening 
follow me: every rose-quartz glance 
a flirtation, every breath 
steeped in stillness

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Face of the Sun (Day 64)

Resplendent veiled light
I cannot go deeper into it
today the face of the sun
is lifting off  
heat crackling like paper
smooth as cream   and slow
as blackberry honey in
a cold cabinet
I cannot go deeper into it
those midnight murky caves
of greedy desire and
single-minded passion
devoured piece by piece
like grapes,
up amongst the white
marble columns glowing
rose-gold in a March sunset

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

They Decide (Day 63)

Tomorrow, They,
in their navy or gray wool,
Ivy-striped ties, and
butter-soft shoes,
They, whose salaries we pay,
will begin to decide
what we may have and
what we may not,
who will be treated and
who, be denied.
Tonight, my neighbors
and I wait to learn whether
we might thrive or, if sick,
go untreated—
and how easily
we might expect
to do so.
Their decision affects
our employees not at all;
we've guaranteed a lifetime
devoid of want or need,
with equal care extended
to their families.
This is how our public
servants will begin
to decide, and
we'll win or lose accordingly,
because we're American,
and we're free
to choose.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The Lighthouse (Day 62)


Hand in hand they walked 
for miles, cellophane heat rippling 
in the middle distance. No shade, 
no shade, and it was hot there 
on the blacktop, where stillness 
settled between the pines growing 
within throwing distance 
of the shoulder. 
Their palms sweated, salt air 
passing from her to him, 
and back again, 
and, always, the lighthouse, 
somewhere off to the right, though
often out of view. His face 
reddened, her nose burnt, and 
they longed for water, and for 
the bicycles they earlier refused, 
as if they had forgotten how to ride. 
Perhaps, if they had practiced 
how to pedal and steer,
how to keep their balance,
they wouldn't have lost their way 
and become separated, 
he at one end of a long, sere road, 
she, all the way out here, at the other, 
neither able to put one foot in front 
of the other, to retrace the miles again.
The lighthouse is no longer 
on her right, but behind her, far 
enough behind that, though she 
sometimes strains to see,
she can barely discern its beacon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, March 20, 2017

Where the Truth is Written (Day 61)


I can hardly see the trees anymore, let alone 
the forest, floor composed of fallen leaves,
a century's worth of organic debris, perhaps more
than I care to count anyway
you look at it, the truth is written in 
  the pattern of your missing hair, 
  the blue now faded from your eyes, 
  the spaces between the razor thin lines etched
    into the back of your hands,
  the rings you no longer wear
    on fingers so swollen from typing
    lies, that they no longer fit
your purpose now, as you can see,
is to reach the bold red X on the corner
of your map, where you imagine treasure awaits
discovery by a conquistador of your stature, you 
won't find contentment there, though,
the demise of longing, your old companion 
about whom you could elucidate, wax poetic,
compose sad songs while sipping wine
in a cafe, but no, we'd rather never hear 
some lonesome tale of martyrdom
embellished as it would surely come
from between your truth-parched lips.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, March 19, 2017

First Arrived (Day 60)

Taking in the South— 
an allusion to
when you first arrived,
carrying the weight 
of so many others, maybe
a little bit crazy.
Everyone thought 
our energy was funny.
What a refugee is: being 
a conqueror of the world,
not a dirty word.
Gathering on the patio 
in the cool aqua evenings, we
are such fighters and warriors now—
on the move, singing
like birds, a political idea 
we have come
to represent. You
are welcome to
take more than just one look.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Rustic Luxury (Day 59)

coastal meadows
—fertile with grasses 
and light like lace—
perfectly complimented 
by the softness of lovers 
who wait 
for the perfect dreams,
spun with luxury, 
and always 
just a little out of reach 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, March 17, 2017

Brighter Than Azaleas (Day 58)

Brighter than azaleas, we
walk arm-in-arm, oiled
lips like plums, coconut
scented fingertips, young,
while on the radio, tuneless
bluebird time pursues
and tires us.
We, glimmering blankets
by the pool, cloudy, green
as absinthe, jade escapes
us, bridging then and now
like sky and sun
and sand heaped up
in dunes, the grasses laughed,
we laughed and wandered, too.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, March 16, 2017

The Places He Does Not Know (Day 57)

The places 
he does not know 
      are no less real for 
his incomprehension, 
but this will 
      not always be 
so, and I long 
      for that day 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Here We Are (Day 56)

So, here we are
—you, squinting into 
the sun. Can't be 
fixed, but it is 
hard that you would 
wander off, so far.
I'd just come up
for air, and known.
Of course, 
that was after 
we talked.
The heart I used to
listen with 
is broken, still
out for repair. 
Funny, how I believed 
I wasn't there, 
but somewhere borrowed, 
while I tried to
remember you 
would never leave.

(c) 2017, by Hannah 

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

The Thousand Cranes (Day 55)

She'd climb 
     the ancient 
          leaning hedges 
to look 
at the thousand 
     made of curious 
          gray paper 
(she'd been told 
they once were red, 
but grew so old 
that all their color 
     had bled out, staining 
          the dried leaves
          on the ground below 
               a dangerous pink).
Busily engaged, 
in discourse with her secrets,
she didn't hear 
     the quarter moon—
          who hated to interrupt—
until he whispered, 
a gentle breeze 
in her left ear, 
It's time, it's time. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, March 13, 2017

Fascist Funk, as dictated to the poet (Day 54)

Heavy, sweet as sweat, smoke 
hangs, a shroud,
a cloud of doubt that gets in 
your eyes and makes them tear,
dissolving the regret 
of millions of voters 
whose debt will be 
paid in lives and in 
detention centers. 
I don't worry, too few of them 
to mention—gonna be great!—
not that it ever 
enters my mind. 
You see, me and my kind 
we're not weak, we 
revel in our money, and 
despise the drab and meek
even in our homes
dictator chic, some editor 
once called it. What? I like red 
walls and velvet, and 
polished gilded laminate, 
in which I can admire my pouf
—See? I've got a sense of humor!
This flowing mane is proof 
that I'm still young and growing 
younger by the day. I'd say 
there's few more virile than I, 
though I wouldn't say I'm vain, 
just well-adjusted. 
Success and power, 
smoke and mirrors, 
it doesn't matter how I got here— 
I deserve it! And you love it, 
even when you 
say no, 
especially when you say 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Careless Spring (Day 53)

Plumage bright, birds preen
Plum blossoms awakening
Afternoons linger

Gentle golden glow
Striped puddles stain pine floorboards
Evenings sharp with chill

Dancing, careless spring
Tempting us with loveliness
Jealous, winter seethes

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, March 11, 2017

About the Ancient Mystery (Poem 52)


You believe no secrets 
can be kept about the ancient 
mystery: how all living bodies 
came forth from a supreme imagination—
from stones, to water, 
to a single, 
—all here, among us, even 
in the unlikely moment 
when you felt the need 
to stop before a tree, 
and were unable 
to rid yourself 
of the idea 
that dissolved 
his freedom. 
Now, solidly rooted, he refuses 
to utter your accolades; but 
long after you've forgotten 
his silence, his blessing 
upon you will be renewed. 
You did not imprison him 
—he succombed to life, 
and then withdrew, 
to tend to 
your departure.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Inspired by a passage from Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust, whose prose is the purest of poetry.)

Friday, March 10, 2017

No (Day 51)


and then they 
say let me help you
and then they 
say yes they say yes  
yes   yes
and then they
say let me do more
just ask that's all
you have to do
yes they say yes
and then they 
learn the truth
that one
can only say yes
so many times before
the response begins
to be
no   soon always no 
they say 
no say no  no

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(The photo is my 'remix' of an original photo by Joe Shlabotnik via Wikimedia Commons)

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Broken Alley (Day 50)


The difference is subtle, 
what will 
what won't 
go over, when 
a man walks his pit-bull 
down a broken alley, 
in plain view of 
the neighborhood's mothers, 
children, and cats. 
what can 
what can't be 
with the mystery 
key found amongst 
the crumbs, paperclips, 
and earring-backs in 
his deceased grandmother's 
nightstand drawer. 
And, when that man dons 
his blinding white 
Nikes and a freshly-bleached 
'wifebeater', the difference 
staying out all night 
coming home 
at closing time 
will be very subtle, 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Lonely From The Inside (Day 49)

The body knows 
lonely from the inside, 
bone deep:
ice-cold toes in the midst
of summer, 
or that odd gnawing 
hunger that comes on a few 
hours after Thanksgiving 
dinner. In the morning,
the body knows
it as a hollowness,
an echoing empty house
in which someone was 
supposed to have been 
living. On the outer rim
of sleep, the body knows
lonely so deep and all
consuming that, instead 
of reeling away in fright,
the two embrace, 
the feeling pulled up
and around like 
a comforter 
on a winter night. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Bird No. 1 (Day 48)


A signal 
        (like an invitation, or a warning)
or gesture 
        (of goodwill...or good Faith?)
involving the human 
        (because we all are)
hand's extended 
        (in generosity...or supplication?)
so-called middle 
        (we don't meet here as often as we used to)
finger—the others  
        (there is no Other)
are retracted,
        (pulled back, turned inward)
except the thumb, 
        (exceptions are the new rule)
which typically remains 
        (how do we decide?)

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Photo: Firecrest, by Martin Vavřík

Monday, March 6, 2017

Side By Side (Day 47)

Side By Side

Side-by-side, each opening 
a door, they cross the threshold—
familiar, but unsurprisingly foreign. 
She talks without saying much.
Appearing to listen, he wordlessly 
nods and shakes his head, eyes 
fixed on an invisible horizon—
though not unpleasantly so.
He is tall. She wears a black 
wool pea coat. Over the years, 
they have come to resemble 
each other: hair disheveled, similar 
wire-rimmed glasses, the same 
brand of comfortable shoes.
One might easily imagine that they 
pass each other detective novels 
in bed; that he chooses the music; 
and, when they eat out, 
he finishes the food on her plate,
without asking. They cannot linger 
here, where tawdry is casual, and 
casual, elegant; where the big sky 
is purchased at the bargain rate 
of irreversible closure; where small 
thoughts appear to take up 
all the space in the world. 
So, they add milk to their coffee, 
stirring, tasting, and, as they step 
back into the murky afternoon, 
they say: Please, if we ever have to 
live in a place like this, just kill me,
instead. Their laughter is awkward.
Neither will admit to feeling
the dreaded heft of the ropes 
settling around their shoulders, 
even now.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Daisies & Newspapers (Day 46)


We fancied daisies 
and daily 
their common patterns. 
We rustled 
vigorous characters, 
the mellifluous middle 
passages of the mind—
most often 
convinced of nothing 
that was 
but needing,
and hiraeth,
and need.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Love Bloomed (Day 45)


Like an eternal break of day,
Sun perpetually dawning—
Forever new—love bloomed.
Like the silencing, in an instant,
Of a tumbling sea, love 
Frightened and astonished me.
Like seeing the mystery of 
Every summer that ever 
Beguiled the earth, revealed 
In a single resplendent smile, 
It delighted and inspired me.

Everything we know will, 
Some day, come to an end. 
Even death will be unable 
To escape itself. Still, 
Throughout my life, as I grow 
Old and wise—and beyond 
Even the end of the end—
My enchanted heart will always 
Whisper the name of my one, 
My truest love.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

While you'd never know it, I want to acknowledge that "Love Bloomed" was inspired, in a roundabout way, by the following untranslated poem. (I speak only a few words of Spanish,
but love how Becquér's language affected the rhythm and pacing of my lines.)

Podrá nublarse el sol eternamente;
Podrá secarse en un instante el mar;
Podrá romperse el eje de la tierra
Como un débil cristal.
¡Todo sucederá!
Podrá la muerte
cubrirme con su fúnebre crespón;
pero jamás en mí podrá apagarse
la llama de tu amor

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Friday, March 3, 2017

Instead (Day 43)

Just now, I thought
There's not a lot
Going on inside
My head.

This realized,
I recognized
The fog within
And said:

I just can't write
A poem tonight,
So I wrote this

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

For information about ME/CFS, visit:
#MECFS #MillionsMissing

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Late-Winter Storm (Day 42)


Late-Winter Storm

Clouds, flat as irons, and just as grey,
Topped with swirls of mist, smooth the pale sky,
Leaving behind the impression of a warm spring day.

Tomorrow's snow is palpable as a sigh,
Encouraging sap to stir and songbirds to nest.
I, listening in delight, deplore late winter's lie,

It's ineffable allure never fails to test
Those fragile hearts, who through resilience win—
In the end, when winter dies, they're summer-blessed.

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

The Best Way (Day 41)

Isn't this, she asked, the best way
     to get coffee stains out of
          a yellow-gingham curtain?

Isn't this the best way
     to make sure I get all those
          tiny chips of glass up off the floor?

Isn't this the best way
     to get to the hospital without
          having to drive on the freeway
               during rush hour?

Isn't this just like a man?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six