Thursday, November 30, 2017

Bah! (Day 316)

How tiresome to be saying 
Merry Christmas again
when it should so obviously 
be June. Since late October, 
all the stores have been playing 
their jingly-jolly songs, 
shoppers humming along 
tunelessly, as they pause
to consider the merit 
of a bellydancing houseplant 
or battery-operated mittens. 
You don’t have to choose, 
on the spot these days. 
The good news is: 
You can buy that retro, 80s
neon sweater, just like the ones 
everyone hated in the 80s, 
even after you go home.
The joys of the season are 
upon us, and there’s always 
a reason to celebrate 
the people you love—as well 
as those you dislike, but 
are forced to buy gifts for by 
your boss or your spouse—with 
a mall-kiosk brie that not even
a mouse would find tempting.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Benh Lieu Song

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Last Star (Day 315)

Daybreak comes
the last stars,
except Mars, 
who lingers,
like winter 
on the high 
northern plains.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Winter Cafe (Day 314)

The table where we used to sit is empty, 
bare but for a handful of citrus-hued leaves, 
uncomfortable chairs that never supported 
our backs or, frankly, our behinds, have been 
turned upside down, stacked one on the other 
and chained together like escaped convicts 
in an old movie--in it together until they are 
killed, recaptured, or freed by a stranger 
with an axe. You may have noticed, I am not 
being terribly romantic. There were days when 
seeing our favorite place this desolate would 
have depressed me. Perhaps, I would think 
of a simile, about how the sidewalk cafe was 
like our life together, unloved, abandoned, 
or some such. But today, looking at the bereft, 
rain-spattered tables, feeling the damp chill 
creep from the sidewalk into my toes, I think 
only this: I am different now. And I am glad.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via Pixabay

Monday, November 27, 2017

World Like a Cat Toy (Day 313)

Sometimes the world 
feels like a cat’s toy, 
a little blue-green ball, 
new, shiny, frantically 
spun about for a while, 
then batted under the bed 
and soon forgotten. 
For weeks, months, or (yes), 
even years, the toy remains 
inert in dust-laden darkness.
But, on a far-off moving day, 
someone may find it, 
pick it up, and say, 
“Hey, remember this?” 
Then, once again, the little ball 
will enjoy more light and 
find renewed favor, and be 
maniacally spun about, until 
it is batted under the bed again.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Moritz320

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Exurban Christmas (Day 312)

The aisles are all full 
to bursting, floor to ceiling, 
side to side, the walkways, 
like arteries, narrowed 
by excess, and yet 
just a few bags in hand.
A whole lot of something, or 
a whole lot of nothing—
it barely matters in this 
tumbledown, blue-collar town, 
where the aisles are all full 
to bursting, but there’s little 
worth buying these days.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Saturday, November 25, 2017

He Cannot Pronounce Her Name (Day 311)

Unsayable, a scree of consonants
piled up at the base, he cannot
pronounce her name. Love, dear,
darling, forever come simply and
easily as sugar in coffee, 
the way she fixes it for him 
in the morning while he showers, 
rinsing off the night’s dreams, 
that dark oily scent clinging 
to the steam, making his mouth 
water like it does when he wants
 to kiss her unglossed lips 
the way they are in the morning 
when she wakes up, rosy 
and puffy with sleep, warm 
as a winter fire after a midnight walk 
on new snow, when the world 
glows bright as a full moon, 
and the drifts shimmer, casually
heaped against the fences,
already pitted, collapsing 
like those consonants at the end 
of her name, which he cannot, 
could never, pronounce.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Skeeze via Pixabay

Friday, November 24, 2017

His Rendezvous (Day 310)

In the end he was quickly granted his 
rendezvous   saying little   connecting among 
the ghosts of school-room conversations after 
his charade of rochambo crushed the bodies 
of those children with their knowing eyes.

Little by little we begin to break ranks   
mothers unable to restrain us with the old 
dreams we left behind in their wombs   
fingering our superstitious thoughts like prayer 
beads and furrowing our brows when we realize 
none of our messages have been opened   
none received. 

And yet many linger in the hard winter sun
waiting to see   knowing that men such as 
these always do themselves in by 
murdering what they have already won 
during a time when they believe they haven’t.

Note: This poem was inspired by a few random lines
of The Complete Essays, by Michel de Montaigne, 
which I chopped, scrambled, and tinkered with for
an enjoyable hour or two.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image based on a photo by Gage Skidmore

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Thanksgiving Day, West End (Day 309)

Stillness played
my favorite song in 
the back yard today. 
Neighbors gone 
to family dinners,
the empty street 
was clear and clean.
No cigarette smoke
   sickened the air,
no voices rose, shrill 
   with anger or abuse, 
no car horns tore the quiet 
   morning (instead of  
   using doorbells),
no heavy fists battered 
   locked doors (instead
   of knocking),
no pans of food were left 
   to burn, neglected 
   or forgotten on the stove.
Today, fate simply graced us
with effortless, easy silence.
And for that, I was grateful.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Too easy to blame (Day 308)

It would be 
too easy 
to blame this 
on long-necked bottles 
and midnight rivers 
dusted with 
pollen and stars, 
too simple 
to make up 
excuses for 
the dwindling daylight 
and interminable 
weekend afternoons. 
Better by far
to face each hour 
boldly until 
they slink back 
into their bespoke containers
so you can say 
fuck it 
and get on with things.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Tiger (Day 307)

Some days it stalks me
spit-snarling tiger 
   treading water 
on which my boat balances 
longing breeds longing
longing like a thundering 
grit plunders my tongue 
my teeth longing for 
the barely-detectable crunch 
of white buttercream icing 
   you can keep your garish 
   blue roses
the splashing ceases
in the silence something 
noses the thin hull 
below my feet

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: cuzitwasgood 

Monday, November 20, 2017

Conscious Planet (Day 306)

raw and ugly   sawed blankly through 
the black green hillside of tumbledown 
trees presaging landslides to come   
slipping and slumming down on every 
gambler who packs his ivory-colored heart 
on the back of a public flirtation or 
a private-jet barter for a smallish blue planet 
careening through emptiness without 
a driver   its liquid center sloshing and 
splashing like a fringe-festival flask in 
the governor’s pocket   tender and aquatic   
fragile and pliant   she will rise to her full 
height one day and exact her molten revenge

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Jim D Griggs, US Geological Survey 

Sunday, November 19, 2017

3: Them (Day 305)

Feel the lush 
of completion 
underfoot   dazzling 
flowers strive toward 
a raspberry evening
arms open wide 
to give 
       to receive
is a song you sing   
a delicate
     delightful thing 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019

Saturday, November 18, 2017

2: Her (Day 304)

Rising from 
the maelstrom  grim 
and gray  hurling itself
on shattered shores 
beneath a sky ripped
wide open  clouds
torn asunder by wind
gone astray  she finds 
her shallow footing 
firm   unfurls 
apple-blossom wings. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, November 17, 2017

1: Him (Day 303)

Snowflakes fall like coins 
from a lurid coral sky. 

Left out in the cold, 
he chases them, 

grasps at the shattered air. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019 via Pixabay

Thursday, November 16, 2017

One of Me (Day 302)

There is one of me
and one of me and none
of the other  an empty chamber
where sound and light are
deadened  the way they are
when leaves fall and pile up
in rusty old heaps  like shredded 
paper turning to dust in the gutters
or when the trolley stops running 
because the tracks lay beneath 
a blanket of snow  spread smooth 
and white as buttercream  surface 
excruciatingly unmarred  irresistible 
except  instead of two lines 
of footprints  there are only mine  
and only mine and none 
of the other in the empty space 
to my right  from where only 
the purest light glistens 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

A dream is... (Day 301)

A dream is a question, 
a lock, with thousands of keys 

A key is a dreamer of doors, 
a gentle-eyed carpenter, willing 
to feed your cat if you have 
to leave before he does

A door is its own kind 
of small death, a sacrifice 
on the altar
where the heart is

Death is a welcome 
mat, next to which is 
a basket with a little sign saying: 
Please take off your shoes 
before entering.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: BloggerStefan

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Trail of Crumbs (Day 300)

We sliced the days 
thin as fluttering kite tails, 

savored every hour, and, 
in case we lost ourselves 

along the way, we left 
a trail of crumbs, remnants 

of a life that love consumed,
to guide us home 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration for Hansel and Gretel by Alexander Zick (1845–1907)

Monday, November 13, 2017

Unbroken (Day 299)

having a heart
that had never been
or a spirit
that had known
only joy

the topography
of a life 
like that   
unmarred by yearning
unchanging   unearned
a bleak and  
featureless expanse
as far as the eye could see

like awakening
yawning and stretching  
into a nightmare
of eternal ennui
from a dream
rich with longing
and love
and loss

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay