Thursday, July 20, 2017

Puddle (Day 183)

Lift up 
a corner of 
that puddle 
right there 
and tell me 
what you see


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Torbakhopper

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Can We Fight (Day 182)


How, how can we fight 
against figments of 
the night, creations 
of a disturbed lack 
of imagination—
every direction a knife, 
a noose, a fiery pit?
How can we live, 
banging up against 
thick-swarming lies, 
when everywhere, 
the buzzing, biting 
flies struggle to believe 
him moreAlmost 
imperceptiblythe door 
is closing, and we
we with our buckets and 
green garden hoses, are 
fighting a storming sun.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Gorgeous image of a 7/14/17 solar flare and coronal mass ejection: NASA (more here)

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

A Current Stirs (Day 181)



Sinuous eels flutter.
A current stirs, 
their solemn eyes peer.
Slim darting fish meld 
like sequins with sunlight, 
flashing through 
the dimpled swells.
Bemused, they swarm 
—angels swooping
toward vengeance, 
astonishing and fast.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Detail of painting by Raphael (public domain)

Monday, July 17, 2017

The Key (Day 180)



The key: Poverty destroys 
sirens, rejects the fluttering,
alluring solutions that 
gyrate, sometimes tediously,
among the more voracious 
fishes in the great freshwater 
aquarium of problem solvers. 
It clips the wings of simple 
answers and do-gooders, and 
blasts Babylonian policymakers
with the furnace breath of
ten thousand dragons, until,
trembling bodaciously, they 
slip backward into plentitude
wash the dirt from their hands,
and heave the sanctimonious 
sighs of martyrs and lesser saints.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Amartya Mandal

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Abuelita, June 2017 (Day 179)


We crossed the border in
a rusted Falcon, on a wheel 
that was starting to go flat. 

A fountain of dust spouted 
behind us, tinting the sky  
terra-cotta where the sun shone,

Powdering our car, skin, food 
with an ancient, ubiquitous grit,
metallic on our tongues, like blood.

Whenever we passed another 
car, truck, any sign of civilization, 
she ducked and covered herself. 

Before the stark mountains, a plain, 
monotony interrupted here and there 
by run-down, sun-broken signs. 

We drove through darkness, wide 
open to the desert air, vibrating
under a million spinning galaxies.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Rennett Stowe


Saturday, July 15, 2017

He Will Take It (Day 178)



You smile and then 
you sulk and then 
you are hungry and then
you resent me and then 

your mood swings 
wild and I 
try to manage this 
and worry 
and think
yes actually it is 
your fault 
i have too much 
right now

now here i am 
in fucking bed again
and what should 
i have been doing
taking care of myself?

and the shame 
i feel is pitch black dark
deep black so 
no one else will see it
then he will take it
then he will lay it out 
on me and
no one else will see it


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Two Lassa With Doctors, 
US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC)

Friday, July 14, 2017

Let Them Eat Cake (Day 177)

Subtly, they slice and serve
Each morsel on a china plate,
Never more than they 
               think we deserve.
So disdainful of us,
               yet they’re sealing our fate.

A few voted them in, 
               we all fund their pay—
In most cases a dire mistake.
Now they collect our money 
               and say:
“Our constituents? Let them eat cake!”



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Cake at Madonna Inn (CA), by Daderot

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Ormolu (Day 176)

More than half 
a century 
but it’s ok this way 
to the nostalgia 
show where all the leaves 
are still fresh and new  
money drips from every 
gold-plated faucet 
like maple syrup 
from a jug you hoped 
contained magical 
moonshine 
over the shimmering South
Atlantic where 
an iceberg the size of 
Brunei just broke 
free to dissolve 
slowly in privacy 
and enjoy a bit of sight-
seeing along the road 
to purgatory 
which I always imagined as 
a sort of dark-gray Hell 
but now realize 
is an emerald- and 
sapphire-colored world 
veiled in swathes 
of ice-vapor lace
our bride 
whom we abandoned 
at the altar 
of instant gratification



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


Photo: "Midnight in Moscow" by Emilio Labrador
I thought the photo's description was interesting: 
"Elegant lady in suggestive evening attire and without a partner, wanders among the well dressed attendies during the pre-gala cocktail reception held at Mar-A-Lago intended to raise funds for the newly built local clinic and hospital. These year's party theme was a Russian Czar 'Winter Palace'. Mar-A-Lago, Palm Beach, Fl, USA"

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Know Why? (Day 175)

know why 
you cant hear 
me 
when i say i am 
   in pain? 
because
you 
   want me 
in your 
   goddamn business 

i have tumbled
   before 
into your red hot 
   resentment
and found myself 
bruised purple 
by the sharp edges
   of your 
discontent

well that
   believe me
is one fire escape
i will never
   fall down again



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Derek Jensen (Tysto)

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Haiku for Day 174


Beneath an unbruised snow
Where my toes are pink and warm
Softly, you gather me



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Steven Milner via imgcluster

Monday, July 10, 2017

In a Daze (Day 173)

Inside, more spacious,
emptier, room
to think. Silence, cool
and dark, a curtain 
drawn against 
the hysteria outside.
Sink into clear air.
Allow. Nothing more
than nothing, simply
exploring each breath.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Amazing image by Andrew Preble 
(@apreble via Unsplash.com)

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Persephone in the Afternoon (Day 172)

I can see Persephone 
waving to me
as we pull our way 
toward the opposite shore. 
The crossing is dark,
barely lit by a spark,
that seems to glow
and grow from the deep.
For a moment, I'm blind,
afternoon light floods in
as I struggle to climb
out of sleep. Then again, 
and a whoosh, as our hull 
scrapes the ground—
with a rush we’ve emerged, 
from the night.
Sudden sunlight bursts free,
Yet, squinting, I see 
a dim, but heartbreaking, 
sight—lovely Persephone,
in a vanishing fog, motioning, 
still waving to me.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


Image: The Return of Persephone, Frederick Leighton, 1891

Saturday, July 8, 2017

A Painful Two-fer (Day 171)


The Goose-Egg Blues
Oh, you're a long narrow staircase,
And I ain't playin' with you no more.
Yeah, you're a long steep staircase, 
And I ain't playin' with you no more,
'Specially since you threw me 
Headfirst into that door.


After the Fall
Bumps, bruises and a few contusions
Have robbed me of my grand illusions
About using crutches to go downstairs;
So, for now, I'll just embrace seclusion

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Notes:
- I have no idea what's gonng on with the spacing
- Photo of Iowa Capitol Law Library by Jason Mrachina

Friday, July 7, 2017

In Darkness, He (Day 170)


Often, 
in darkness, he 
sends his dogs 
to dig, to jail, 
or to crop, and 
until they return,
muzzles coated 
with mud and worse, 
he threads 
his needle 
with the guts 
of freedom.   
Headed uphill, 
he believes he is
given to empathy. 
He nods to 
the left  
a motion he wants 
to make, but he insists, 
they
may not skip
the vows 
of trust and loyalty.
In darkness, now, he
aims 
his twisted dream 
at certain angels 
of our better nature,
and tightens
his finger.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original Image: Benjamin Applebaum

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Blue is the Hour (Day 169)

Blue 
is the hour 
when you 
come home,

the twilit moment 
when, alone, I 
put down my pen
and turn 
inside-out
toward 

the window,
gauging the light,
delighting in 
the soft summer 
sparkle of fireflies,
before you 
arrive.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Oia, Santorini: Blue Hour, Pedro Szekely

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Four Hours Later (Day 168)

More than four hours later, we emerge, 
squinting into a July afternoon, absorbing 
its heat into blood, fingers, and toes. 

More than four hours and yet we know 
—is this even possible?—less than 
when we arrived. Did they hear what I said? 
No, the thick summary tells me. What I sensed, 
was true. 

While you read your book and simmered in 
a stew of frustration, boredom, helplessness; 
while the aides arranged their upcoming vacation 
days; while I stared at the walls in a haze 
of pain and killers of pain, a few people 
worked, very slowly, at 

not finding answers, not offering a single comfort, 
not understanding the meaning of “cannot stand 
or walk on it”, not making accurate notations.

When all was said and done, we walked away with 
an assurance that a bone I never suspected was 
broken or dislocated is, in fact, intact.

They told me I needed to lose weight—I am a woman, 
after all—then politely, but soundly, dismissed me. 
And that—believe me—was a skill 
at which they were very practiced, indeed.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: A Souvenir, John William Godward, 1920

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

A fan, a violin... (Day 167)


A fan, a violin, a ticket 
on a swaying train,
waiting like some self-satisfied 
grande dame enshrouded 
by her veil of steam. Wheels 
sing on cobblestone streets, but 
in the sprawling park, duets walk 
and listen appreciatively 
to a handsome mockingbird. 
Summer sulks, and whispers in 
equatorial tones, painted in red 
dust and canopied windows, 
behind which translucent ladies fan 
themselves and pretend not 
to sweat. The men, dangling 
cigarettes in a darkened library, 
admit nothing to their wives—mere 
trophies or, at best, beloved pets—
whose delicate natures, their men 
believe, could not tolerate the harsh 
daylight glare of their midnight 
mistresses. Falsehoods, fraught 
with thorns and slickly oiled, flare 
like matches, only to burn out 
and leave behind only untrustworthy 
images in their wake.


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Vintage photo: Afternoon Tea, Bombay 1897