Monday, July 31, 2017

At the End of the Pier (Day 194)

Sitting at the end of the pier, 
you and I shared a coke, 
our feet dangling in midair. 

We inhaled the faint mist rising 
from the water, which flowed 
with the tide, left-to-right, below us, 

and imagined boats drifting past, 
carrying people we glimpsed 
on the news, people without 

homes, some running from, some 
running toward. Then, we fell silent, 
as children do, who, like refugees, 

carry little sense of power, helpless 
in the face of pain and despair, 
never realizing that we, hands tied, 

offered more than the entire city behind 
us—hearts in our hands, ready to give 
or to take, as the situation required. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Alcatraz Sunrise, by Tony Webster

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Difficile (Day 193)

threats (like red threads)
are frequent (text alerts)
and difficult (of hearing)
to identify (with)
and even (out)
to comprehend (one’s own existence)
among (a city of strangers)
the broad spectrum (gray-scale)
of intruders (in the night) 
stealing (tip-toeing about)
confidential (you know, that movie?)
information (freedom of…act)

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Buy This One, Zanzibar, by Rod Waddington

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Faithful Sky (Day 192)

Faithful sky, waiting,
Unconditionally blue,
For the clouds to pass.

I always believed in you.
No storm can last forever.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: A "hole-punch cloud" (or Fallstreak Hole), by H Raab

Friday, July 28, 2017

Lilacs, Vineyard (Day 191)

If everyone listened to lilacs, 
the way she did that 
spring, the world would be 
light as a butterfly, balanced 
on a spiraling tendril in a 
honey-tinted vineyard. 
In the distance, bells tolled 
the hours, rolling over swelling 
hills in round, velvety tones. 
One day, as she leaned 
close to hear their whispered 
secrets, plump purple cluster 
filling her palm, a page of 
wasp’s nest paper alighted on 
her fingertips. The lilacs trembled
while she read, then hung 
their heads and sighed to see her, 
careful and straight, make her way 
across the upturned field, 
toward an aproned woman 
waiting, screen-door balanced 
against one puissant hip.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Valeria Boltneva

Thursday, July 27, 2017

Hibiscus Evening (Day 190)

Like the ruby hibiscus, 
hoarding sunlight, 
the evening sky furls. 
Petals laden with rain, 
it curls in on itself, 
and the birds fall silent. 
We wait for that first drop, 
the burst that follows, 
sending spray through our 
window screens and 
faithful fans, always running. 
An almost-August storm, 
borne in on a southern wind 
from down the valley, 
not mountain-split this time. 
We’ll witness the full brunt 
of its clamor and crashing 
downpours, feet up 
on the porch railing, leaning 
into each other, knowing 
only in our bones how it was 
when February paused here, 
shook herself, and filled 
our narrow street with snow.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Andrew Dunn

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

A Rather Angry Rant (Day 189)

Fair warning: This poem is neither lovely nor politically correct. Because today, am giving myself permission to speak bluntly. That's one of the benefits of—for now—not being held to the standard of objectivity.

A Rather Angry Rant

And we sit, 
and we watch
while they take,
and expect us
to give them 
so much 
for the sake
of a law 
that doesn’t
protect us all.
Build a wall?
Ban those souls
over there?
You don’t care.
It’s not freedom
or justice
it’s the same 
old prejudice, 
and we, 
the majority, care 
for democracy.
Your wall is 
just smoke,
and your ban 
is a joke, like 
your klannish
reactions to
progressive actions.
We’ll win 
in the end
and rather 
than bend, 
you’ll break, and 
we’ll sweep up 
the shards of 
your sorry ass,
and dump you in
the compost heap
with the rest 
of the trash 
you keep company 
with. Then we—
the brave 
and the free— 
will get back 
to the task 
of erasing 
your legacy 
of cruelty, 
your name for 
all history.
You’re rotten
to the bone,
and you will
end alone and
We’ll see to it
you steaming
clumps of...

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Brocken Inaglory

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

How Summer Wanders (Day 188)

Evening sank, then, 
when we understood 
how summer wanders. 
Then, when the world 
seemed to flutter 
like plum blossoms 
under April’s spell. 

I thought as much—
I remember, too, 
when the shards 
of frozen days 
pierced our hearts; 
you, silently dismayed. 

Soon, in a different light, 
when summer has been 
well-staged, we may amble 
along the sleeping shore, 
mid-day tide rushing in. 

This will happen. 
And we’ll feast on 
the orchards’ spoils, when 
all is sweet-dripping nectar, 
and dozy, humming bees. 

The size of that night sky, 
laced so finely with stars, 
delicate as lichen patterns 
on an ancient stone wall.
You can take me now, 
if you like, into this sinking 
evening, before it is gone. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Inspired by "Ich Denke Dein" by JW von Goethe (Untranslated version)

Photo: North of Slaidburn, Donald Judge

Monday, July 24, 2017

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Spoons (Day 186)

Be careful how you spend them:
Too many in the morning will 
upend your day. Summer’s 
brilliant sunlight will come 
streaming through your 
windows, find you 
where you hide, 
and set your pale skin 
aglow, inside, there in your
bed. Your plans all scattered 
to the wind, because you needed 
rest instead. Once again, you gave 
them all away, far too early In the day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six 

(The Spoon Theory is a way to describe myalgic encephalomyelitis [ME], fibromyalgia [FMS], multiple sclerosis [MS] and other ‘fatiguing’ [major understatement, there] autoimmune diseases. Read about it here.)

Image: FaceGuard via Pixabay

Saturday, July 22, 2017

When I Think of You (Day 185)

When I think of you
I see myself   
stretched out 
   under the same sun
in the same field   glowing 
golden just like you 
and when I look up 
my sky is also blue 
   how strange 
      we are   believing 
it’s true   that just because
   we’re far away 
      from each other
we aren’t the same though 
   when you look in a mirror, 
   when you think of me 
       you will see 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: No, that’s not a photo of the midwestern US! 
It’s a beautiful field in Azerbaijan.
Original photo: Havin_HP 

Friday, July 21, 2017

We Did It All Wrong (Day 184)

We did it all wrong,
but we didn't mean to.
You, shoes squealing 
sharply, sliding, 
reaching, saving
the day, captured 
in black and white
like a song. 
Later, the whiteness 
of my arms against 
the darkness of 
your skin astonished me
and you—the moon 
turned us a glowing 
twilight shade of blue. 
We danced, sweet 
and slow, and you left 
your ring on my table,
so I’d think of you, 
and I did, 
and I do, you see? 
But that was all then, 
and we did it 
all wrong, didn’t we?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: I was unable to figure out to whom this lovely image should be attributed. Please leave me a comment if you know.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

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