Sunday, October 15, 2017

Into a Gorge (Day 270)

Last night I 
         subsided into 
a gorge  dark  
  rose and 
     bronze and 
sand  fine and soft 
and deep   closing 
warm  around 
my ankles. Now 
summer  rolling up 
   the snow a dripping 
      towel of cold grit 
and no color on 
   the trees 
coming  tall 
as a wave  high as 
   a delirious flock 
      of Canada geese  
majestic  wise 
carrying our dreams 
to heaven.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: brh1028

Friday, October 13, 2017

Orchard Waltz (Day 268)

windfall scents
crackling air 
red and gold 
apple  pear
pave pathways
and clearings
cricket choir
bullfrogs grunt
their assent
in the wings

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Derek Harper

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Haiku for Day 267

Downpour of darkness  
Inviting elk to forage
Antlers pale as smoke

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: skeeze via Pixabay

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

I Still Smile (Day 265)

I still smile
When i think 
of you, I still feel
the key ring on my 
middle finger, biting into 
the tender neighboring flesh,
the weighty beige phone 
receiver in my hand.

I still see 
your face, tanned
and rosy-cheeked from 
the bitter cold, and how it 
paled beneath that particular 
shade of fluorescent light from 
overhead, drained of color, still 
glowing when, eyes flashing, 
you broke into one of 
your knowing smiles.

I still hear 
you talking, voice low
against the ringing soprano
chorus of crickets, when, on 
a slow night, we might find time 
to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool
air fortify us for our next foray.

I still feel 
the thrill of the walk
—through the dark streets 
echoing with roiling engines, ribbons 
of music, and laughter from the riverbank—
to your door, where my flat, dull evening 
would transmute into fireworks over 
the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out, 
into a cheap 10-watt bulb.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lasvegaslover

Monday, October 9, 2017

It's Like That (Day 264)

It isn’t a slow song that gets to me, 
but the shuffle of boots across
a sawdust floor, dry as august 
weeds, screen door banging against 
the frame from time to time, 
red dust coating on the chairs. 
It’s the way a certain singer’s voice 
breaks just there, at the edge of that 
single note, and how the steel guitar 
falls away from the band to sway 
through a slow swing solo. 
The beer is just okay. The crowd, 
rough as brand new, 
never-been-washed 501s.
But that boy, with the silver band 
around the crown of his dark brown hat? 
The way his eyes darken as he plays, 
and the skin at the nape of my neck 
tingles in anticipation? He brings me 
back, and back again.
It’s like the shuffle of bare feet on 
a wide-plank kitchen floor, the scent of 
strong coffee brewing on the frost-bitten 
edge of a long autumn morning. It’s like 
the sunlight glazing each falling leaf 
against the backdrop of a cedar forest, 
so the trees seem to be raining fire. 
Yeah. It’s like that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Charles C Pierce, Inside the Yellow Aster Saloon, Randsburg, California, ca.1900

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Newlywed (Day 263)

Look at me,
waking up thinking
about you, a thousand miles
away. On my finger, a ring,
unmarred, bright with shining
dreams and burdensome
realities. Do you wake
up this way, too—wondering
about me, here in the sun—
on your frost-crisp northern
mornings? Or have the wheels
of your world continued their slow
and steady progress, 
carrying, removing 
you, ever further away?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


Saturday, October 7, 2017

Friday, October 6, 2017

Who Taught You (Day 261)

where do you come from
bursting with exuberance
stomping your flat feet to 
scare my gentle smiling 
dog?  who do you go home 
to at night who taught you
that cruelty is the way? you 
may not realize that I see 
you behind your barbed-wire 
fence  eyes flat  laughter 
fierce  it is not hard to imagine 
that you are afraid and 
that I embody the demons 
who frighten you to the 
marrow of your unmarred 
bones  I admire your courage  
how your very walk spits 
in the face of all that is evil 
and against you and I would 
risk my life for you if you were 
in danger  because you are 
my own heart  because I too am 
scared and sad and frustrated 
by our perverse attraction to 
rattling doom and the scorched 
Earth we will bequeath you 
and those who will come later 
and even so I would like to know 
who encouraged a sweet child 
to grow into the kind of man 
who purposely stomps his feet 
to scare my gentle smiling dog? 

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Dripping Words (Day 260)

old-fashioned roses 
russet pathway 
wends  hard-edged 
encircling a bench 
we chose in glossy 
April’s warmth  coffee 
cups in hand  legs 
splayed casually  
sunshine fierce  naïve 
and future-bound  
doubtless   in cocoons  
humming and content  
dripping words that 
never mattered as much 
as what we meant

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Loathsome Creature (Day 258)

Seated charcoal figure  
o bringer of freedom   
o darling loathsome creature
your veined cheek caressed by 
unlearned lessons  which  caught 
in gravity’s gaze  slide snail-like 
toward the puddle at your feet   
The lost  face-forward  salute 
your titian glow  their eyes 
like matches spark desire  each 
then thrown  spent and smoking 
on your cache of volatile words 
and empty anthems  no fearsome 
stars for you  each inharmonious 
bar performed by rote  soon will 
rewind into the fathomless 
erasure of merciful Time.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: The Rape of Europa, by Noël-Nicolas Coypel, 1727

Philadelphia Museum of Art 

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

I Turn Coward (Day 258)

I can’t bear to look
—eyes, mouths, words—
I turn coward, and 
turn away from 
the fears of millions, only 
to encounter my own, 
home to roost at the end 
of another record-breaking 
day, familiar face shining
and ghastly under 
the silvering glow of 
a slow-rising autumn moon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-Photos

Monday, October 2, 2017

Talisman (Day 257)

I am unspooling 
into taupe  liquifying in 
an aqueous netherworld 
of subtlety  gentle understanding 
and ancient knowing dwell here 
among the crystal glimmers 
of possibility
don’t birth me into your world 
of fire  don’t drag me kicking 
and screaming 
against  against  against your  
hot  cold 
white  black  
right  wrong 
sears my eyes  their unquestioning 
allegiance wakes me late at night  
in a sweat of skepticism  
no  allow me to remain  
wallowing in what I do 
not know  wrapped in gray layers 
of of hidden meaning  
a gleaming necklace of human 
teeth my talisman against 
the dreams of others

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

The Talisman, 1888, Paul Sérusier

Sunday, October 1, 2017

The Sweet Spot (Day 256)

The sameness vast       the sweet spot on the map 
of me alone                    the plans we made 
together gone                an opaque white curtain
and you my future        in a box to carry 
where I go only              snow empty and white
when I look forward     only a shadow of light
hardly a glow and          yet I know it does
I suppose that’s just      the way it goes

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original image: NairnBairn