Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Grain of Sand (Day 133)

I dreamt 
was a grain 
of sand 
in a hand 
holding on 
too tightly and 
tumbling into 
the dunes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Original image source unknown)

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Who Knows? (Day 132)


Who knows if the lilacs bloom, still, 
underneath my childhood window, 
or if that glass itself remains in place?
Who knows if the fossils fall like rocks 
onto the beach from the face of 
the sandstone cliffs, shells closed 
around their ancient secrets?
I am not so very old—not old at all, 
in fact—but the world that I grew up in
is long gone.
And sometimes when I think of it, I mourn 
the loss of silence, and the world 
I live in now, well, I mourn for this one too, 
maybe more so.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, May 29, 2017

What You Do [with ME] (Day 131)

Violet-tailed Sylph, by Michael Woodruff

You read and you listen,
to old books and new podcasts;
you need something different.

You rely on the radio,
for company and staying in touch;
the best are weekend shows.

When it's rainy and gray
you don't mind like you once did
it breaks up the sunny days

You long for the forests
and hiking on steep rocky trails—
but still have the dawn chorus.

You strive to slow down,
it is harder than it sounds;
life goes on all around.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

For more information on Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME), which affects many millions of people worldwide, yet receives little media coverage and, in the US, almost NO research funding, visit this page.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Dawn Haiku (Day 130)

Photo: UltimatePhoenix

Finches run errands
In grass, sun-warmed rabbit rests
Languidly, dawn spreads

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, May 27, 2017

They Talk Backwards (Day 129)

Photo courtesy US Government 

they talk backwards and upside 
down in an underwater way 
that makes wind chimes shiver 
and sends a chill down our spines

so shameful we shrink from 
their lack of embarrassment 
is arrogance the same 
as confidence do you think

dear world please don't hate 
all of us we pray but we know 
that their spilled ink has 
stained our fingers too 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, May 26, 2017

A Lemon Falls (Day 128)

A lemon falls.
My grandmother boils it.
A cougar waits out the heat.
She came to me in a dream.
Mine or hers I don't know.
Waterfalls and lemons fall.
Grandma rolls the hot lemon 
with the heel of her hand.
Under a tree in the cool dust.
She squeezes the warm juice 
and pulp into a coffee cup.
Water falls from pointed leaves 
high up in the eucalyptus trees.
After adding honey she settles 
herself on the edge of my bed.
The drops sound like footsteps. 
She feeds me the lemon syrup
a few tablespoons at a time.
At midday the baking dust 
smells faintly of pine resin.
Then she sets the cup on my 
nightstand and lays her cool 
dry hand against my forehead.
Fog shapes pass like quiet people 
outside our lace-curtained windows.
Her smile is like the rising sun.
It soothes me.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, May 25, 2017

In the Window (Day 127)

Fifteen minutes and a gnawing hunger 
turned me inappropriately toward 
the local donut store where in college 
before we avoided sugar and fat 
I used to go with my roommate 
for Sunday morning debriefings and 
perhaps one of us arrived once 
or twice in a black dress and high heels 
with a sinuous swagger no one called
the walk of shame even if it was 
pretty lame to sit in the window across from 
your groundbreaking computer engineer 
roommate who spent her evening building 
things you still don't understand while 
you flirted in vain and looked sexy 
in your fuck-me shoes which her mother 
would have killed her for wearing 
not that she ever considered it being 
far more practical than you and therefore 
not majoring in Victorian Poetry.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

PS. Roommate is often in one's thoughts, and one wishes her much joy.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Labor Away (Day 126)

We labor away 
at our own 
vain remembrances, 
loathe to release 
the wild efforts 
of our dreams, 
to regain what little 
ground we may have 
lost, or to capture 
more in preparation 
for a shortage
in the hidden and
untrustworthy future. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Grand Lady (Day 125)

Abandoned House, Hagerstown MD

Never a grand lady,
Like those northern upstarts. 
You were even, perhaps, 
A bit careworn, compared 
With your neighbors, whose 
Fresh red confidence eclipsed 
Your plain-Jane simplicity. 
Or was your appearance 
Purposely misleading? 
You might have jealously 
Guarded the golden joy pulsing 
In your veins, familiar warmth 
Radiating comfortably 
To the scrolled tip of each 
finely-turned bone. Glimpses
Of your elegant strength,
Your faultless honesty, 
Your unwavering generosity 
—Visible only to those who 
Knew you, or who thought to look 
Beyond the customary trimmings—
Gifts you bestowed intimately,
Their secrecy lending them 
A covetable air of pricelessness.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, May 22, 2017

Two Haiku, Two Senryu (Day 124)

Photo: Marabuchi
Birds versus squirrels 
Locked in eternal battle 
Sharing the same tree


Rabbit stretches tall
Craning his neck to nibble
Sweet, young poppy leaves


Friday: hot humid
Saturday: sweater weather
Mid-Atlantic May


Chic woman with scarf
Insouciantly knotted
matches her flowers

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Shore Town (Day 123)

Photo: Cape May, NJ, by Hannah Six

Summer surprised the pretty shore
Rustling like tumbled velvet
Filling cottages, roads, and sand
Crowding up the little station

After breakfast, tourists appeared,
Dutifully marching beachward,
Arms filled with coolers and bright towels,
Claiming the same spots every morning.

The sun climbed higher in the sky,
Parents and children chafed,
Arms full, they soon retreated inland,
Dripping ice cream on the sidewalks.

Late afternoon, clean and revived,
They emerged again to eat
Booking restaurants and filling up bars,
Then going to bed early and watching TV.

After a week of sun and sand,
Growing restless and bored,
They paid their inn bills and headed home,
Leaving behind old receipts and brochures.

The siege continued for three long months,
Leaving the whole town weak,
As summer ended they sighed with relief,
And closed up most of the kitschy boutiques.

Soon, winter enveloped the pretty shore, 
Windy, bitter, and cold.
The people wrapped up in their woolen coats
And rejoiced in their empty beach.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, May 20, 2017

Cold Feet, Warm... (Day 122)

Wash that dirty fleece,
And card those dark gray locks,
Spin it in the grease,
And knit me some wool socks.

I like my socks long, 
With cables all around,
Make sure the heel's strong,
And that the toes are sound.

Well, she washed that wool,
And spun up every bit,
Then she let his feet grow cold
Until he begged to learn to knit.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, May 19, 2017

Idle Fumes (Day 121)

Photo: B137 via Wikimedia Commons

cars idle fumes rise 
like steam 
parking lot black with sun 
hazy overhead   

cashier said we're due 
for storms when it gets this warm 
and wind circles like a half-blind 
shark in shallow water 

waves of exhaust_ion swell
building underfoot 
like melting tar 
but no 

that's the slow freight 
graffitied cars oily 
reverberating through 
the kudzu

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Sad Story (Day 120)

When you say you say nothing 
new in all the best words under 
the sun blazing down like 
the wrath of that golden calf 
you pray to shimmering 
around your head 
a corona of mistruths disinformation 
fake news words we seem 
to have made up especially 
for you are a fox in the henhouse 
 which explains why 
feathers are finally flying 

away far away as fast as you can 
run away from home to some exotic 
land where a lovely girl will bury 
your head in the sand 
they'll hide you and never let 
us find 
you go 

and someday when you 
are dead and gone south 
people will sing songs 
about you and your gang 
like that one about DB Cooper 
who hijacked and jumped out 
of a plane only we all thought 
that story was really pretty cool 
he became a folk hero 
but no one is rooting for you

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Hopeful Tanka (Day 119)

Feathered choristers pray.
Short notes whirl above the flutes.
The shining wings beat.

A temple of new leaves swings.
Hope gathers on the horizon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sweet photo by Frank Schulenburg, "House Finch (Haemorhous mexicanus) with an Oregon Junco in Strawberry, California"

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Words Fail (Day 118)

Some days the words fail
You refusing to come home
Leaving the Muse alone
With silence
Like a barren page

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, May 15, 2017

Unsophisticated Intruder (Day 117)

Unsophisticated intruder, 
breaking into and erasing 
our news, our truth, our
wallets, our daughters' date
rapes, rolling around in 
delicate systems and files,
shedding lies like dead skin—

Your dirty dreams are 
responsible for limitless 
unplugged devices, editing 
the free out of range, 
riding your black-hatted 
disorganization into endangered, 
broad-spectrum communities, 
a never-has-been directing 
Grade A insecurity, helter-skelter,

at the [inter]national level.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Unstoppable (Day 116)

Cicada husks 
obscured the walkway 
an exoskeletal patina 
pecan-dark and crunchy 

Howling she stomped out 
the pointless icons 
unstoppable as 
a howling December flood 

Behind mullioned windows 
the family's lesser matron 
pausing in the middle of her tea 

Hoarding words in a notebook 
is not the same as preparing 
for an inevitable future

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, May 13, 2017

How We Talk Now (Day 115)

(Travel Journal Page, Laura Mandelbaum)

How we talk now 
text now thoughts through 
hands thumbs screen 
like pen on paper 
no midnight scent of ink
or glide of gold nib soft 
as caramel on a slick  
old-fashioned journal page
we can write in bed 
or on the train or in the car or 
simply speak 
our stories lives letters
poetry on the page 
in our own voices 
different voices careless 
boisterous silly strong   
tongue fingers thumbs 
an accent different from 
the gentle rolling 
hybrid print and cursive
that I used to write 
my father's mother like 
notes dashed off to mine 
now love dispatched 
post haste with 
a few taps of my thumbs

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six