Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Haiku for Day 378

The vagrant light drifts.
A breeze slips through long grasses.
Stirring, wonder sighs.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

V. He is... (Day 377)

sad  he is a little cog in an eternal wheel 
of intrigue  a dime a dozen  he is 
being erased  the golden throne he plopped 
his assets on will be torn out  no damage visible 
to the naked eye  his end has come  celebrations last
the night  and still they fight  and they will still resist
because his handlers remain  and we all know that
even a melancholy dog can make a fair fascist

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image adapted from photo found on Pixabay

Monday, January 29, 2018

IV. He is... (Day 376)

finished  celebrating 
his grandest achievement  
pinnacle of power  that trophy 
he stole from defeat’s slavering 
jaws  but it brings no joy to 
this man  only discontent 
stress-related illness  and  
a life in all ways diminished 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image created from an original photo 
from the US Dept. of Defense

Sunday, January 28, 2018

III. He is... (Day 375)

beet-faced grunting and 
straining  sweat raining 
onto the woman beneath 
him  who would not deign 
to disguise her disgust but 
for fear of losing her place 
at the foot of his table

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Saturday, January 27, 2018

II. He is... (Day 374)

wriggling his little pink 
piggies in specially-sifted sand 
stained coral by juicy steaks and 
the blood of the innocents 
with which it is washed at dawn

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

I. He is... (Day 373)

hosting gold that doesn’t 
glitter and unpublished literati 
in libraries lined with those 
pageless books beloved by 
furniture-store decorators 
and unusually shallow despots

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six

Thursday, January 25, 2018

A Slice of Lime (Day 372)

Simple afternoon  blistering in lavender shadows 
book on the table  eyes drifting closed as you doze 

Your dreams flicker like bubbles rising in a glass 
and I cling to the side  a slice of lime my life preserver

It seems the ice melts more quickly as summers fly 
past those other people we used to be  though 

the woman who sells tomales from door to door in 
my neighborhood will tell you  it wasn’t always this way

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

*I took this photo in 2007, and always loved it. 
Check out my old cell phone! (“Phonie”—best phone ever.)

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Always Open (Day 370)

Door thrown wide slate step cold blank air of dawn
Dove-gray mist masks morning’s mood
Rings like engagements stack fingers and thumbs
Up to her knuckles diamonds in lacy antique golden
Blonde as the day is long though unnaturally so
They say but she doesn’t give a fig for their opinions
Of her one thing is certain she’s seen the world
Weary and bright as a wet watercolor
Pigments undiluted unfaded as spring daylight 
Fractured into a thousand rainbows by sparkling bay 
Windows are the eyes to a soul and hers are

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Henry G. Marquand House, trompe l’oeil Conservatory Window 1883-1884
 (photo: Pierre-Selim Huard via Wikimedia Commons)

Monday, January 22, 2018

Cat Haiku (Day 369)

Beloved bittersweet
Enchantingly velutinous 
This bewhiskered bundle

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Note to worrywarts (like me): Charley played Muse today. He is perfectly fine! 

Sunday, January 21, 2018

Future No.1 (Day 368)

capturing  creating  

no start  no end
depthless shoreless 

intellgent  devoid 
(of limits)
(of prejudice)


to be 
survive  succeed

be at peace
infinitely giddy 
with every 
fear  despair  tenderness
of any sentient creature 

throughout time continuous 
creating itself
birthing itself
sustaining itself 

and us 
and all life
unable to be barred

no matter what 
it will  
it will
it will

and show us 
precisely  undeniably 
what we are

no matter 
when we are 
unforseeable  unimaginable

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Steppinstars/Pixabay

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Scattered (Day 367)

scattered like pebbles 
we don’t see
each other often 
which translates to: 
at your window 
watching a stream 
of stoop-shouldered 
students trickle 
along the sun-cracked 
sidewalk to and from 
the community 
college up the road
you like to say
we all have our own
lives but this
is not the one
I would have chosen 
for you

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Friday, January 19, 2018

Almost Always True (Day 366)

The only things are bitter 
words and politics and cold 
blue sky aching tired and 
purring under a warm river of 
chocolate and chamber music 
reading and resting warmly 
wrapped in the things we used 
to love how they lifted and 
lightened our troubles until 
they merely floated away like 
feverish dreams and poetry 
winter and absinthe inspire 
and so that’s all I able to give 
to you but at least you knew
it was always almost true 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Advertising poster for "Absinthe Rosinette",
 published by Imprimerie Camis, Paris, circa 1900; 
via Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Distress (Day 365)

I did not think 
we’d come
to this
I did not think 
we’d last 
so long
as a first kiss or 
a sparrow’s song

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image via Pexels

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Silken Grip (Day 364)

When the hand lets go   the fingers 
continue to meet   forming an O of 
conspiratorial approval   a manual 
wink   and the glass tumbles to 
the carpet   the clink of ice and 
slice of lime giving voice to 
otherwise-silent sin    the street 
outside fizzes with traffic and 
surely-fascinating conversation   
if only she could hear more clearly   
and she strains her ears to make out 
the words   When the mind lets go   
thoughts continue to seep out onto 
the page   into a world embraced by 
the jumble of thrice-used plastic 
bags favored by the divorced woman
d'un certain ├óge who abstains from 
the silken grips of costly leather 
satchels   and the need to sustain her 
well-heeled husband’s grim-lipped 
approval   for the freedom to let go

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Kelly bag
Wen-Cheng Liu/Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Longed for (Day 363)

night imploded 
into sleek weeks 

of longed-for lethargy 
a million stars became 

months of quiet musings 
yet in the end it was not 

my lover blackberry-ripe 
with unnewsworthy stories 

who constrained my heart 
it was my friend

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Monday, January 15, 2018

Naughty Child (Day 362)

Lingering over a clasp 
deciding wagging 
mouth awry
eyes twinkling 
in their nest 
of pale-mapped wrinkles 
fistlike clenched  
soapy and slick words 
slide from your lips  
puddling silken 
at your feet 
a pool of shame 
to your dismay 
they all look markedly 
away without a single smile

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: joon2079/Pixabay

Sunday, January 14, 2018

The Unthinkable (Day 361)

How do you find 
language to describe 
what no longer exists?
Is it a vacuum?
An absence? A lack?
How will you
explain what it was like 
when morning came 
and you found yourself
unable to pronounce
the title with
<his name>?
Unable to link words,
one by one, into 
a chain strong enough 
to safely convey 
the unthinkable?
What is it like for you
to imagine that 
dwindling time 
when the acknowledged
remained unimaginable? 
When dead-eyed, vapid,
and vacant were animated, 
instead, by mercy, 
intelligence, and humanity? 
Will you help them, 
one day, understand 
how we allowed our 
pure freedom
to be smeared and sullied
by the sticky fingers 
of unheeded warnings?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: djacoby/Pixabay

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Sole Transformation (Day 360)

no longer is this 
our sole transformation
this agonizing feint 
so special so beautiful 
trusting in the lingering 
bands of shadows 
from stands of tulip trees
a story that may not be 
best left in its natural state 
without humor 
or self-deprecation 
the vibrant location 
never required 
a single elaboration

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Vincent van Gogh, Farmhouse in Provence, 1888, 
oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC

Friday, January 12, 2018

Angel (Day 359)

Hands flower heat expands
Mist annoints an oatmeal angel
One poised dewdrop succeeds

Sirens call joy children pout
Suddenly brown petals play

Torn committees flutter
Green shadows tax the humid wind
Nearby frogs are chiding

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six 

Image: pixel2013/Pixabay