Friday, June 30, 2017

A Fountain (Day 163)

A fountain lingers
in a square where
one small, bronzed girl 
catches drops on her
slender fingers, 
where they glisten
in the slow, dry heat 
of noon, imaginary diamonds
set in tiny golden rings.
Birds swoop and dive, but 
summer saunters, hips 
swaying to the music 
in her head, the dour sirens 
banished with one vigorous 
shake of spring 
blossoms, petals falling to 
the sidewalk, like a sweetheart’s 
secret laugh. 
Nearby, on a dappled bench, 
an aging woman dreams of songs 
she used to sing, 
of willow roots submerged 
by rising creeks, 
and mud-encrusted cowboy boots 
on  sawdust-sprinkled floors. 
Poetry flutters behind her 
eyelids, toy boats twirl 
among the clouds 
reflected on the water’s 
surface, and 
the first cicada whirs,
one long note, old and strange.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Note: I cannot take credit for this lovely fountain image, which I played with a little to heighten the mood. Sadly, I've been unable to locate the proper source for attribution.)

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Like a Hiss (Day 162)

Shhh… Listen 
closely. Be still
and wait. Can you 
hear it? The whoosh
—or is it more
like a hiss,
or a sigh—a stroke
of air, dark and 
clear. Can you 
feel it blowing 
against your face, 
lifting fine hairs 
off your neck 
and temples, 
where salt crystallizes 
when your fiery
skin cools? There 
is an opening, wide
and fading to pitch 
blackness, a gaping
maw, like the mouth 
of a cave, or 
a dragon, exhaling 
and inhaling at 
the same time, a gasp 
of hunger, or an aching 
breath of vast relief.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

PhotoHole of the Priest, Parque Nacional dos Campos Gerais, by Danielfotografo

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Artifacts (Day 161)

They keep 
adding up,
the moments, and 
the words to 
describe them, 
and I carry them, 
like winter,
like my sister’s piggybank,
like what happened 
that night
at 42nd and Baltimore.
I carry them, 
tucked deep inside 
my pocket, until I find 
someplace warm and safe 
and comfortable 
where I can take 
them out to examine,
one by one, holding each 
up to the light, 
turning it,
like a mysterious artifact,
this way
and that.

(c) 2017, By Hannah Six

Photo: Marrakesch, In den Souks, by Giggel

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

West Side, 9:00 p.m. (Day 160)

They turn, 
moon faces pale 
in the darkness, 
black hollows 
where their souls 
should burn, they 
turn, and 
their faces turn, 
as we amble 
pastthe beautiful 
dog and I. 
Leafy hands, 
unpruned, reach 
upward to pluck 
stars, one by one, 
from the clear sky,
—children, picking 
paste gems from 
flaking gold—
they reach, up 
and out, toward 
and away from, 
spooking the dog, 
but I know 
we will soon pass, 
soon be home, 
and the pale 
moons will still 
have only holes, 
the branches remain 
A dog barks twice, 
squeals, and we 
are grateful 
for narrow, steep 
stairs, from the top 
of which, we could 
continue watching them, 
if we cared to.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Koszalin Street, at Night by Kalasznikow47

Monday, June 26, 2017

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Little Scissors (Day 158)


Little scissors
round-tipped, red 
handles made 
for tiny hands 
to hold

make changes 
the small, the weak
the old, the face 
of history,

the plan 
     regarding pregnancy
the rules 
     of rape or incest

(snip, snip) 
tiny hands 
make cuts
of income 
of need
of age

at any stage of life
change is value  
value is change 

and the unimaginable 
sin of caring: dangerous

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Lazy Meadows (Day 157)

moisture greens 
lazy meadows,
with haze and 
thinly-sliced by 
the bittersweet 
of decaying 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Tuolumne Meadow, by Steve Dunleavy

Friday, June 23, 2017

Luminarias (Day 156)

Clinquant luminarias twist the heavy
sending strange spirals of scented 
climbing lazily toward the dancing
reflected in the water’s tender 
From time to time, winds work the
the way a gentle breath stirs and
the silk-fine strands of hair along your
when we whisper together in the living

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, June 22, 2017

A moment, driving (Day 155)

The hills stand, black, 
against a silver sky,
Dust rides hot wind
where combines cut 
the grass 
beside the highway. 
The air takes on 
a ripe and leathery 
scent, rich patina on
the maturing day. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Matt Duncan via

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Cloudburst (Day 154)

Fleeting fugitive
Sheer cool deluge
Wrapped in warm wind 
Singing setting stray leaves dancing 
Blossom shaped splashes bloom
Like forgetful angels 
Then softly

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Antarctic Sunset with crepuscular rays, NOAA 

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Lucid Bay (Day 153)

Lucid bay rolls. Aqueous 
bowers, fraught with 
binding stalks of kelp. 
Among the lashing leaves 
and streaming silver fish, 
truth breaks. Wisdom 
scalds the waves, stars call 
out from the violet 
deep, a lonesome sound, 
luring believers beneath 
the mirror’s surface.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Kelp Forest, NOAA's National Ocean Service

Sunday, June 18, 2017

They Arrived (Day 151)

Casually, they arrived, 
perfectly suppressed 
diamonds, and gray 
velvet manners
both attracting
     and repelling
their fellow bon vivants. 
They laughed
      eh-heh eh-heh
and swallowed mouthfuls 
     of champagne 
and as their host told 
another joke and stole
a worried look at
their empty glasses,
he caught the beginnings
     of a yawn 
wriggling at the sides
of her smiling lips.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, June 17, 2017

He Was Nobody (Day 150)


Disdaining trophies, 
medals, and craving
widespread acclaim, 
he was 
nobody, famed 
for creating 
an unanticipated future
The Golden Era 
drew to a close 
as he picked up his iron 
scepter. And yet, 
he was locked 
in place, denied 
a ride in 
the golden carriage.
He found himself 
disgraced, unable 
to face 
his curious tribe, 
and—after the stars
had realigned—
was sentenced to live 
as he prescribed. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, June 16, 2017

Outside Spearfish, SD (Day 149)


In the hills outside 
Spearfish, she turned 
her back 
on the way he 
held Belle Fourche,
like pinto ponies,
black and white, grazing 
in his hand. He motioned 
to her, but she shook 
her head, looked away, 
and said: 

“I used to believe,
when I was a girl, 
that so long as we 
had horses, the world 
would be okay. I wished 
for a Palomino 
back then, but now, 
my tastes 
have changed...”

Lifting his hand
to shade his eyes,
he couldn’t see how 
the sun caught 
his ring. An amethyst 
haze dimmed the valley, 
which stretched out 
beyond their ledge. 

Blue-sky eyes 
now cloud-rimmed,
his shoulders fell 
with an audible breath.
“We don't need 
to wait for answers,” 
he said, “Living so 
close to the edge.” 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, June 15, 2017

In a Flash (Day 148)

And then, in a flash, 
she is gone,
And so is the song 
she was singing.
Now is it too late
—am I wrong—
to long for a cracked 
old bell's ringing?

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Photo: National Park Service. Thanks to some super-smart Penn State students, you can hear what the Liberty Bell would sound like if it could still ring.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Will There Be a Happy Ending? (Day 147)

Will there be a happy ending
this time? Will we win
because good always does?
If we can’t hear you,
we can’t see you—
maybe you’re not real.
Can you help us? Will you 
hurt us? Tell us how you feel.
Our hats have always been 
the whitest, spurs have always 
been the brightest, but 
you’re their dark horse and
they fight us everywhere 
we turn. So tell us, 
will there be a happy ending,
or is the ending just beginning?
How can we make sure 
that the good guys win?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: The Herd Quitter." Oil C.M. Russell (1864–1926), Montana Historical Society MacKay Collection, Helena, MT