Saturday, September 30, 2017

Hope hitched a ride (Day 255)

Looking back  laughing
hope hitched a ride 
with you  when I 
flew away  meaning 
to stay  a missing piece 
of the puzzle  
we played alone  instead 
of side by side

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Charly_7777

Friday, September 29, 2017

All That (Day 254)

He shouldn’t undo all 
the trees, hears loons 
downstream, calling 
to his imagination, 
shallow beginnings in 
the leaves’ gilded edges. 
It was the hottest 
year he’d known, 
like Hell’s south side, 
none of the geese 
have flown, but that’s 
fake news. Like back 
when we cried for more 
butter on our bread, 
they couldn’t hear us. 
Our lives were just too 
small for all that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Image: Nomeato

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Those Pigeons (Day 253)

Change is somewhere 
unsuspected, in 
the flyover, appearing 
after years of show 
and tell, free love,
and Disney World, 
and doves, 
and sugarcoated tears.

The truth is closer 
to the pigeons living out 
their fervent dreams 
on Main St., USA,
yet not as cruel 
as politics, or weddings, 
puppies, fitful starts, 
or sweet and shallow 
broken hearts. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Deror_avi

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Not to be Trusted (Day 252)

The fog of fellowship blurs every
hairline crack and fissure webbing 
the heart’s candy shell—proving, 
yet again, that feelings are amoebic 
in nature, and not to be trusted. 
Like liquor, they peel your throat 
and leave behind a burning uprising 
of shame. Even you, accountable to 
no one, will answer for your aimless 
laxity sooner or later, leaving us 
awash in your purple velour humility.
But we will not be brainwashed by 
the wine you pour, that ancestor of 
greatness whispers truths in our ears, 
even in public, we are the good guys
And we always win.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bhakti2

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Monday, September 25, 2017

Deplorable Old Men* (Day 250)

And now they’re saying             He is a racist.
Those guys, you know               How much money they make?
If I made that much money        I’d be thanking god every day. 
But these guys just want            To protest this and that.
Right, and he is the only            One who isn’t scared to say it.
Those guys make so much         Money.
You know what I say                  I say: You don't like America? 
You should get the hell out         Go to another country.                 
But what country                        Would want them?

(What country, indeed?) 

*A minimally edited/annotated conversation from rural America.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Photo of Kremlin: Francisco 

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Harvest Time (Day 248)

Some gathering 
pilgrims set forth 
in pairs, gathering baskets
and woolen clothes like clouds, 
departing at the edge 
of night, the moon’s high 
spirits straighten the road 
before them, winding 
around their ankles like 
a hungry cat. Impractical 
brimstone singes 
falling apples as they land,
purifying the blushing skins
of summer’s gritty haze.
Harvest time, the farm-stand days
glow like boys in love, 
newly bright, buoyant. Once 
clumsy, landing heavily on their 
youth, this tapered light 
now liquifies, they preen 
and joust. Love rises unfairly, 
comfortable lies settle in 
heavy folds where frozen 
stars swarm overhead. 
Blue sadness maintains 
silence among the lost, 
their easy brilliance cracking, 
snapping loudly under the burden
of too-soon hardened hearts.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: UK National Archives (public domain)

Friday, September 22, 2017

From the Left (Day 247)

Today slanted  golden  from the left 
throwing shade 
       on the world  unseen 
since yesterday   one step closer 
to completely abolished 
to silence 
to the barely audible 
hiss of snowfall and wind 
       like blades of blue 
           steel cutting deeply 
where sap surges and tingles 
soon turning 
crimson and flame   pushing life 
upward  throwing verdant foliage into 
relief  knowing that after 
the fall 
    the winter 
        the spring 
dazzling  two steps forward  to the right  
again  almost before it begins.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: tzevena

Thursday, September 21, 2017

The Noun’s Rosy Glow (Day 246)

In the noun’s rosy glow,
legs stretched out 
in front of me, adjective 
minnows kissing my toes
under the cool gaze
of a tribe of water-spiders,
I lean back into the warmth
of an adverb, the one 
I’d been eyeing since 
we arrived almost 
a week ago. Bill Z. tells me
I shouldn’t run with such
a fast crowd, but I disagree. 
How would he know
of the pillowy comfort 
of the passive tense,
he who never dangled
with a participle in his life?
No, give me my sparkling
modifiers, my lazy verbs,
and I’ll leave the prickly
bits to him, standard-bearer
of brevity, killer of favorites,
unquestionable conqueror
of loquaciousness. 

In honor of William K Zinsser
to whom I promise to revise and edit this poem 
when (if?) the 1462 days end.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Lyrical, Verse 1 (Day 245)

Gate in the wall 
left ajar
on a dare 

Hidden garden 
they met there 

Birds were nesting 
filled the air 

He sang to her 
in the language 
they shared 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public domain

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Happy Endings (Day 244)

tragic fiction, happy endings:
flying away 
to some extended-stay hotel 
in some guy’s magic land   
where partly sunny ruins the day

the world is cruel business, see? 
sometimes this strikes me funny 
like laughing at a funeral, death 
do us part

happy few go on forever as 
they start, those poor nine-lives cats 
and breeding bunnies, whose tales 
aren't much worth 
    writing about
        what I don't want to be 
            interested in what I think 

I'm trying to get at, to know, is the truth: 
life just feels more real when 
you drink your coffee from a broken cup, 
when dawn wakes up 
to greet you—you
with the cold dew on your toes

(c) by Hannah Six
Image: aingnamma 

Monday, September 18, 2017

One Shakes (Day 243)

one shakes off 
the droplets of pewter sky and
the dog-damp air settling in cracks and
the iridescent fairy dust of adolescent longing

because now 
powder puff snowbanks have given way
to faded crevasses   shade-flooded and 
rimmed with quicksilver

how is one to live 
when golden lines of poison goose-step 
down boulevards of half-remembered dreams?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain

Sunday, September 17, 2017

155th Anniversary (Day 242)

Fallen stories gather 
Looming suddenly through vast fog
Buried in verdant fields

Words and image of Antietam National Battlefield, (c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Saturday, September 16, 2017

That Is (Day 241)

That is 
The one 
Is not the day 
It’s not 
The way 
It seems 
By dreams 
That kept you 
Up all night 
The brakes 
So slightly giving 
Down a hill 
Slow me 
Me around this 
Is not 
The ride 
I bought 
But in the end 
It is 
The only ride 
I got

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Axel Hammer

Friday, September 15, 2017

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 
as well as 
sit  a pale egg 
the poison slurry 
fills the cracks
appalling  we are 
egos  where a small 
few head 
he goes all in  
they follow even unto
silver-plated truth he 
traded in 
exchange for 
long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Shape of Sleeping (Day 239)

shape of sleeping human being 
soft warm curves and bones
conform to flat hard concrete  mind 
likely dreaming  imagine  suitcases
rolling luggage wall  odd aimless 
walkers  hair ragged  eyes glazed 
like nothing can help believe 
what lies this narrow kind of town 
tells  a patched stone wall  wobbly 
one-lane street  the bridge is slow 
quiet place for sleeping under
baby-blue blanket  to lay down and 
rest now  once night cold and dark 
falls under there safe is conditional

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Mariamichelle

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

I Tell You No (Day 238)

Because I tell you no, I tell you yes. 
You only have to guess to see me smile. 
Once in a long while, you might let me down. 
I’ll come around again, though if you wait. 

Too late is not the same as yesterday. 
And now the birds have flocked, and now have flown. 
The days have grown so short, and cold, and gray. 
You say I told you no, but I said yes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Pixabay

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Autumnal Indulgence, ca. 1985 (Day 237)

Beneath bunting 
   leaves of wine 
      and gold
air warm with autumn
      we walked together
hands clasped
      we sailed glistening 
black highways 
to the sea 
   and back
       before you 
in the gray dawn
       before you 
I should 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: wikimedia

Monday, September 11, 2017