Friday, August 17, 2018

The Lilac Room (Day 576)

That was the year I wanted to paint 
my bedroom the precise pale lilac 
of a floral print on a beautiful pillow 
I found on clearance in a local boutique. 
But, worried lavender would look silly, 
I settled for a nice sky blue, and that 
only on a single “accent” wall.
That bedroom is far behind me, 
but I still have the little pillow.
Now and then, I look at it and think 
about that devastating year, and how
it might have been a little sweeter
if I could have enjoyed my lilac room, 
if I had trusted my purest instincts, 
if I had found a way to say Yes to myself. 
And, I wonder:  To how many other 
yesses might that choice have led me?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Mary Cassatt, Lilacs in a Window (1880), 
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Those less elegant (Day 575)

Unlikely, she thought, that, 
other than him, anyone had 
stroked her forehead in years, 
singing low to anchor her 
in dreams, like novels, 
where she found herself 
immersed in a fog-shrouded, 
high-school swimming pool 
that reminded her of the power 
she once savored, when someone 
believed she was the most 
beautiful girl in the world.   
Now, viewing the past from 
her butterfly-firm footing, 
how they overwhelm her, 
those less elegant memories.
How they obscure the present,
those early games, and 
the lingering songs her mother
would sing, sitting at her bedside, 
until she relaxed and slipped 
away, like water.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Haiku for Day 574

Expanding seaglass sky
Wading in a prophetic dawn
Spice-breathed breeze remembers

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Taprobane Island, Sri Lanka, via Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Poolside in Satin (573)

plastered in turquoise 
where my grandmother sits 
dressed in red  
satin  arms submerged  
in a poolside 
cocktail  rippling 
like window glass  before 
I truly emerged  
even as I gasped for air  
she was there  
her neck a faded quilt 
maribou ruined 
by my mermaid persistence
resisting the pull 
of dripping feathers  no longer 
floating like blood

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Monday, August 13, 2018

Feverish (Day 572)

sere inland desert   
feverish depths of
moisture   condensing
at the accustomed hour
melting   patiently 
unravelling meandering 
mysteries in the wavering
violet of old-house windows  
hear: cicadas  crickets 
firing up   butterflies 
somersaulting  settling 
like eider-down 
on the heavy red aura
of an oddly-empty street

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: P.S. Krøyer, Summer Evening at Skagen. The Artist’s Wife 
and Dog by the Shore. (1892), oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, August 12, 2018

Running Barefoot (Day 571)

clover reminiscences   sun-honeyed sighs 
even as winter settles its hard skies 
and driftwood burning breeze   we feel 
morning stirring   wake to frost formed
like slides within the window frames 

beauty beyond weekends   lonely with 
horizon-watching   hidden   sodden   
watered by wide-open realms   cold sand 
dampening downstairs whispers   
running barefoot through forgotten grass 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Friday, August 10, 2018

Something Happened (569)

Forever ago,
a thin coldness
tempted the warmth 
from this room, 
where fires 
would blaze and spit  
on the hearth, heat 
spiraling outward, 
to scold and 
nip at heat-seekers 
who drew too close.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Martial Bacquet/Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, August 9, 2018

What Happened Here (Day 568)

Atop a tall piano, flowers age,
yellow-edged petals slipping 
silently onto the mirror-smooth
surface of the wood. A clock 
ticks, smudging the passing 
minutes with its musty sound.
Outside the window, birds, like 
perfumed pears, perch roundly 
in delicate trees barely misted 
by spring’s first exhalation.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Alfons Karpiński (1875–1961), Yellow Flowers on the Piano, oil on canvas

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

No (Day 567)

He can’t stop 
telling her
she does not 
want to hear 
the words
he is speaking
his mouth
a circle
of betrayal   hers
of surprise
and then grief
and she 
knows   though 
they are no longer 
there   the air 
in that far away
room   like 
a tuning fork 
reverberates with 
despair   and 
his voice   suspended
in the aqueous
stillness   even now
can’t stop 
telling her  

(2018) by Hannah Six

Image: Vilhelm Hammershøi, Dust Motes Dancing in the Sunbeams
1900, oil on canvas (via Wikimedia Commons)

Tuesday, August 7, 2018

Parkland (Day 566)

Words lie 
smoldering   hours 
in the dark  twisted 
wreckage scarring 
the peaceful parkland 
where we dreamt  ours 
the hypnotic slumber
of a child  willfully 
  innocent  trusting 
what we owned
  complacent  careless
until it was gone

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Matti Blume/Wikimedia Commons

Monday, August 6, 2018

Sunday, August 5, 2018

Joy (Day 564)

joy seems curiously feline
aloof   gliding 
unpredictably   in and out 
of our rooms 
on tiny silent feet   seeking 
quiet spaces in which 
to insinuate itself   but wily 
and recalcitrant toward 
those who try to hold   
or even to cherish it 
beyond their allotted time

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Saturday, August 4, 2018

A Sweeping Exit (Day 563)

Riding the crest of summer   
autumn a rising wave   impossible 
winter brown and blue 
victorian maiden who gathers up 
her bright serrated 
wind  shivering for spring  
rising   rising   to greet another 
seems   somehow  impossible   
deliver us into the warmth 
rolling in from the sea   green fading 
to gray   she makes 
a sweeping exit   leaving us 
to seek our own illumination 
in the obscurity of her violet shadow

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: GoodFreePhotos, edited from original 

Friday, August 3, 2018

Above Us (Day 562)

Above us  stars
haphazard  dangerous
in a random sky  
dark as a mirror at midnight
in a curtained room  
fiendish moon a sidelong 
glance  hoarding light 
against the chance that 
dawn might break  
or  broken  bloom  diffusing 
a golden watercolor 
glow across the morning’s 
dampened page

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: skeeze/Pixabay

Thursday, August 2, 2018

Around the Bend (Day 561)

Just around the bend   he told himself   an effort 
of will   striving toward the pump-house    
each shuffling step taking him ever-so-slowly down 
the dirt road   toward a clearing often favored 
by dog-walkers among his neighbors   still moving   

each step a fence post leaning precariously 
toward the road   bargaining with the universe   
a game he played to keep himself going these days   
If I can make it around the bend then she 
will be waiting for me at home   but he knew

the universe plays by its own rules   and so 
was not too terribly disappointed when he heard 
only his keys hitting the bottom of the catch-all 
bowl near the door as he entered his house
like an echo of all the years   if only he had a dog

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, August 1, 2018

Into the Sun (Day 560)

look into the sun 
be blinded 
by the intensity 
of hydrogen 
and helium spun 
to plasmic perfection
a searing fusion  
necessary and 
devastating as trust 
betrayed   look anyway  
see it 
or live blind  
or live blind
how else can one believe
with absolute certainty 
in the existence
of anything

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Plasma Downpour, via 

Tuesday, July 31, 2018

The Wormhole (Day 559)

Today, He got the worm. 
Today, He soared through 
endless waves of centuries, 
that well-known escape 
from the rotten reality 
of His fiendish mind 
and revolting lips. And we? 
We were left with nothing 
but the wormhole. 
If this were sci-fi, we could 
use the wormhole to travel 
back and correct the errors 
of certain-of-our ways. 
But no, that’s unlikely.
To begin with, it’s not 
the right variety of wormhole. 
And, if it had been 
a time portal, He surely would 
have foregone his own worm, 
to prevent us from bettering 
the world by righting his myriad
wrongs. After all, that’s just 
the kind of stand-up guy he is.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Michael Vadon (CC BY-SA 2.0)
Photo edited by Hannah Six

Monday, July 30, 2018

A Good Tree (Day 558)

Leaves large and dark 
and glossy, attracting wasps 
and birds and other beautiful 
flying things. From my bed
I watched spring surge 
into its bare limbs, marveled 
at the graceful catkins draped,
like tassels, amidst a pale, 
lime mist as, day by day, 
the sun intensified. And, sooner 
than I would like, I will watch 
to see how it bedecks itself 
in honor of autumn. 
Later, perhaps snow will weigh 
heavily on branches blown 
clean by frost-nipped gales. 
Maybe I will see it glistening 
in a glowing sunset, 
each contour, every tiny twig, 
crystallized in a coating of ice, 
as if Nature wanted to preserve 
her favorite, in all its glistening 
emerald perfection, forever.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Sunday, July 29, 2018

A Promise (557)

In the wee hours, 
somewhere along the way, 
I lost them. Just ran out. 
A tiny fish 
   in an endless ocean,
a poet, 
entirely off her words. 
They may never return,
   to comfort me 
when the world feels ugly. 
Or maybe,
   just maybe, 
like a pet bird who tired 
of its cage, they flew 
   out my window, and 
might be lured home with 
   a soft voice, 
   an aromatic treat, and 
   a promise 
of greater freedom.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain Pictures