Monday, December 10, 2018

Over their morning coffee (Day 691)

over their morning coffee

his milky and sweet, hers dark and bitter

he chose not to tell her


on their afternoon walk 

under a fluttering canopy of emerald and gold

he chose not to tell her


while doing the dishes

she scraped and washed, he dried and stacked

he chose not to tell her


when they paused the movie

to make popcorn and her favorite hot chocolate

he chose not to tell her




(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Sunday, December 9, 2018

A Harbor (Day 690)

A dense breeze sifts pale waves of fog, 
bringing the distant closer, larger

fringed by trees, a harbor—forested 
with masts that lean against the gale 
like the creaking tips of blue-green firs 

—boats anchored, like us, to mark 
their place among these giant redwoods 
slowly, silently soaring 
toward the sun

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: JJensen/Pexels


Saturday, December 8, 2018

We grasp the waves (Day 689)


but swimming   we grasp the waves 

to stay aloft  

legs softly blurred   dangling  

in the singing mist below   

we close our minds to gravity’s pull   

allow ourselves 

to roll and sway with the arcane 

rhythms of the planet’s respiration   

like seasoned travelers 

who read their morning papers  

standing   astride 

the aisles of rattling rambling trains


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Spencer Watson (@thebrownspy)

via Unsplash




Friday, December 7, 2018

Completely at Gray (Day 688)


Sharp morning broke 

where we felt utterly 

and completely at gray

returning winter froze 

our shoes scuffed the 

hard earth rising up 

to meet us sleepwalking 

unknowingly on cloud 

nine for kittenish play 

and we encountered no 

dearth of opportunity 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six


Image: Guillaume Speurt/Flickr 

(CC BY 2.0)


Thursday, December 6, 2018

Haiku for Day 687

Silver flakes of moonlight

Confetti leaves form windblown mounds

Every road a promise



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Untethered (Day 686)


You often felt you owned it: 

your brilliance

toes tickling a dance floor 

or a scuffed and rosined stage

making art so you never felt 

what was better left 

alone except for 

those small dark possibilities   

you danced untethered 

to your almost-home 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere


Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Let’s Jump (Day 685)


Let’s jump 
off the other side 
of the wall 
that keeps us where 
they say 
we should stay
because we know 
in our bones 
we are almost 
home now 

Let’s allow 
our hearts 
to swim among 
lingering stars and
to find 
the remembered 
spaces where 
our fingers 
used to fit 

Let’s dive 
so the deep 
green water closes 
over our heads 
as we sink 
hair snaking 
Medusa-like toward 
the undulating surface 
secret weeds tickling  
our ankles 
sending us shrieking 
toward the light 


(c) 2018 by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Monday, December 3, 2018

Butterfly (Day 684)

How is it that I do not realize 
how delightful I am,
eliciting sighs and smiles 
from all whose eyes linger 
on my iridescent flutterings? 
But I am aware of nothing 
more than the lightness 
of being carried aloft 
by rising currents 
on a sun-gilded afternoon,
of floating amidst clouds 
of fairylike cottonwood fluff 
and showers of tiny sparks 
from the sequined wings 
of tiny insects hovering in 
a column of leaf-filtered light.
 (c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Sunday, December 2, 2018

Week at the Shore (Day 683)


A sticky south wind chuckles 

at flocks of shining tourists 

     splashing beach-bright clothes 

     all over a wide bleached 

boardwalk   smoothly sulky 

the younger people vault over 

     sagging fences impatient for 

     the waves and the secret 

places their hands can linger 

underwater   after an hour or so 

     the crowd grows restless 

     shifting and sighing 

on the lumpy sand some even 

wondering why they came for 

     another vacation at the shore 

     and whether this one week 

can be worthy of so much 

anticipation   while others 

     sprawl and sink into 

     their boredom   clutching it 

as if it were the one-and-only 

life boat on a rapidly-sinking ship



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Spiterman/Flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Saturday, December 1, 2018

Your Turn (Day 682)


When it was your turn you made 

your own plans


not quite the way you envisioned this 

day of course back when you could 


still squint into a sun-drenched future

rife with years of unfraught celebrations


as the ferry pulled away leaving

in its dark wake a trail of intricate lace 


rain poured from lavender-gray clouds 

slumped low over the bay 


and the gentle pitch and roll lured you 

to the bow  face streaked with rain 


and spray salty as tears  you marveled 

at how the years had passed since 


you last thrilled to mountainous swells

face-forward out into a granite sea


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Lumpytrout (CC BY-SA 4.0)

via Wikimedia Commons

Friday, November 30, 2018

Unsorted (Day 681)

The unwritten   unwritten

the unpaid   unpaid

the raw   uncooked

beneath a blue-gray blanket 

of clouds  the land settles

broad brown hips 

of hills stalwart 

and voluptuous remain 

unlooked at   unappreciated

a hunger   unfed

clutter unsorted  and I 

out of sorts (like my mail)

take another breath and try 

to begin again 



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Shenandoah National Park

Courtesy US NPS

Thursday, November 29, 2018

Like a pearl (Day 680)

Isn’t the sky like a pearl today 

all gray and pink and creamy?

Isn’t the world a dreamy place 

when you forget to think?



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Alan R Light (CC BY 2.0)

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Another Page Torn (Day 679)

It was another day 

another foxed page 

torn from a book

shelved in the attic of 

a seldom-visited library


A day as tender 

as my mother’s hand

in mine soft and fragile 

as a tiny gray bird

newly hatched


A day too tough 

to nibble or chew

dry and hard 

as the pigs’ ears 

for which my dog 

begs and yearns 


It was another day

but now it’s done

night drawn about me 

like a shawl comforting 

dark and promising 

a warmer tomorrow



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Winter Lament (678)


December is drawing

the sharp edge 

of its blade 

across an afternoon

gently falling.


Can these be the same trees, 

spindly and dull 

from which 

—last May—a harvest

of birds were calling? 


And this field, uncut

and stunted 

by the cold—

could fireflies have risen, 

blinking, from it, 

just as the rose moon was 

dawning? 


To compare is to invite

sorrow for tea, 

and He is not welcome here.


Still, knowing that somewhere 

a fragrant garden 

is in bloom, a breeze is 

balmy, while one shovels 

snow and ice 

is galling. 



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ray Hennessey (CC0 1.0)

Monday, November 26, 2018

The nature of things (Day 677)


The nature of things
is to change
their nature.
The way of things
is to go
away. 
So it is okay 
if you want to 
tell me 
goodbye.
It is 
in your nature
to leave. 
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Valerii Tkachenko (CC BY 2.0)
via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, November 25, 2018

A Land He Thought He Knew, Part 2 (Day 676)

Part 2.

Everything about her sang. 
When she walked 
across the red sand, tiny 
bells rang out from her 
ankles, and her hair rippled 
and snapped like sleek grasses 
in the rising wind. His heart
knew the words to her melody, 
and his eyes followed her as she 
went through the rhythm 
of her days, and at night 
his dreams covered her 
like a warm woolen blanket, 
but still, she did not see him. 
How this could be, he tried to 
understand, demanding answers 
from the god he prayed to
—railed at—as he climbed 
those bloody, mountainous dunes. 
To no avail. To her, he was not 
unavailable, nor even off limits. 
No, to her, he was invisible, 
and that was the worst fate of all.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pexels

Saturday, November 24, 2018

A Land He Thought He Knew, Part 1 (Day 675)


On a mission 
to a land he thought 
he knew like the back 
of his hand, where 
he tried to convert those 
whose wisdom predated his 
grandmother’s 
grandmother’s 
grandmother, 
he met a woman 
dressed in a shade of blue 
that reminded him of 
the hyacinths in his mother’s 
jewel-like garden, 
how those tender daggers 
pierced the Earth’s frozen crust, 
striving toward the bounty 
of sunlight entrusted 
upon them by spring… 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: adapted from a photo by 
fdecomite (CC BY 2.0) via Wikimedia