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

Monday, June 19, 2017

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

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

You Come Back To Me (Day 146)

 Katja, on hand-crocheted ripple blanket

In the strong line of my pen, 
you come back to me—
playful, an acrobat, more sure 
of your skill than I, but you
prove yourself, and, high 
above us find a view that 
inspires your frequent high-wire 
displays, much to my dismay. 

In the light of a midnight moon, 
you come back to me—
ghostly presence just beyond 
my toes, leading me through 
darkness on the route I always 
follow, then you take me back 
to bed and perch, a quiet 
presence, near my head, and 
I slip into sleep hearing you
purr, my fingers tangled in 
your luxurious fur. 

In the still moments before I wake,
you come back to me—again, 
alight in the rose-gold morning 
glow, solemn, silly, cherished 
little friend, somehow you 
always know my dreams are 
at an end, my eyes about to open, 
and, mysterious as joy, you’re 
there to meet me, the sweetest 
way to greet another day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, June 12, 2017

Twelve Shooting Stars (Day 145)

Lazily undulating furrows stretch, 
an exotic love song, under 
the missing quarter moon
on this long and silky, rainy night. 
Twelve shooting stars will fall 
unseen, while Jupiter's 
murderous glow burns, fierce, behind 
the weary sky. Wandering, later, 
out to the fallow field, eyes still 
dreamy, breathing shallow, 
lightning barely flickers at the edge, 
the dozing sheep grow restive, 
mumbling their deepest fears to us, 
and one another. Deep blue ozone 
tints the balmy breath that gathers up 
the rain-slicked chestnut leaves, and 
whispers timeless secrets 
in our ears, to warm us on a distant 
winter night, when we'll dream 
of lullabies that only trees can hear.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Chris Rand, Star falling into the aurora over the Kewaunee River, Wisconsin 

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Inside Summer (Day 144)

Inside summer days
Like outdoor winter evenings
Fine in small doses

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Read Widely (Day 143)

Photo: Library in the Jewish Cemetery Krems in Krems in Austria Anton-kurt

read widely and 
manners (compassion)
a dry sense of 
civility (kindness) 
which isn't at all 
the same
resolution (conversation)
as cynicism 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, June 8, 2017

And Yet... (Day 141)

Washington, DC (Image courtesy NASA GSFC, MITI, ERSDAC, JAROS, and U.S./Japan ASTER Science Team)

And yet, the world 
is lush with summer promises, 
is emerald grass and flowering trees, 
and rustlings amidst the leaves. 

And yet, the sky 
is vast, a polished tourmaline,
with gentle puffs of unshed rain, 
and cottontails nibbling new growth.

And yet, the morning,
filled with song, is fresh and new, 
is sunrise gold that winds along
to fireflies and starry nights. 

And yet, the days still pass, 
and languid rivers melt their shores, 
and jagged peaks grow soft and old, 
nothing lasts forever—

And yet, the world.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Stillness (Day 140)

Photo: Jason Hollinger

Thick layers of stillness drape 
the cornfield's winter stubble,
midnight sky pearly and pale,
her face concealed behind
a veil of crystals dropping
like petals onto the drifts' 
unmarred shoulders with 
barely more than a sigh.
Hushed, the world rests. 
Hushed, we walk, slowly, 
each step ending with
a creak, until we stand 
in the great wide open,
faces turned toward 
the flakes that cling 
like tiny feathers 
to our eyelashes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Doesn't Matter (Day 139)

(Image: Jastrow)

When the clouds turn from 
the distinct shade of rainbow 
sherbet to a mountainous 
violet against the twilight sky, 
it doesn't matter. 

When the neighbor's children 
are rabbits in your garden, 
delighting in the sweet burst 
of sun-glazed tomatoes, 
it doesn't matter. 

And when you feel again 
the torrid, charge of 
a 17-year-old morning, the day 
you finally claimed your freedom, 
it doesn't matter. 

It doesn't even matter when, 
with a pang, you remember how 
you gave it away again, too soon, 
too foolishly in love, too blinded 
by moonlight and stardust. 

This is not to say, mind you, that 
it doesn't matter. Because it does. 
It's just that some things always 
matter more. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo info:
Tile with two rabbits, two snakes and a tortoise. Illustration for Zakariya al-Qazwini's book, Marvels of Things Created and Miraculous Aspects of Things Existing (13th century). Musée du Louvre.

Monday, June 5, 2017

From the Silence (Day 138)

Brighton Storm, Dominic Alves

Elsewhere inside 
the room we built
so carefully, 
brick by brick, 
close enough that 
ignorance might 
pluck it
from the ethereal void
from the stunned 
that void evokes, muting 
the tidal beating 
of our collective 
something exists 
that we do not 
expect, a glistening 
shadow of urgency. 
Will it trickle, 
thick and languid, 
into the light 
of day? Or 
shall we gallop toward it, 
seize it, brandish it 
in one vast roaring surge, 
so that we may know 
ourselves to be alive? 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, June 4, 2017

We Were Willing (Day 137)

Photo courtesy Special Collections, University of Houston Libraries

Can we redream our-
selves    hybridize 
our opposite 
   attractions  strong emotions 
we were willing 
but now 
the poles are shifting
compass points
   great pendulums
are swinging  
while we 
sleep   wake   work 
       appointments   art    love 
everyone is busy 
   knowing what 
everyone else is busy 
   feeling  thinking  saying
all the time   nothing 
is reserved or spared   
  opinions   stories   images
are shared
  without discretion  
we weren't made for this  
  a captive audience
    who never chose
our shows
    nor bought our tickets 
yet what cost 
we pay
we pay
and no one ever asks 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six