Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Slowly Resolve (Day 406)

Slowly they resolve 
turning inside out 
right and left   relieved
yet so often 
tremulous   questioning
the possibility 
of knowing what we know
stars bloom around 
their gaping eyes as they strive 
to comprehend
the beigeness of his jacket
his right hand barely holding 
little gray shards 
of streets   they see how it is
harder to think
up a suitable answer in the blank 
whiteness   to navigate a path 
pinkened by windblown 
cherry blossoms
in crestfallen octaves 
they fall away   
evening’s incongruously empty 
sidewalks heightening 
their anxiety   sending them 
into the breech   its fury 
swirling and whipping their dreams 
into wild white horses 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: public domain/PxHere

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

The Beast (Day 405)

The beast is stirring. Do you hear her? 
Roaring like war in the middle distance?
Ouroboros consuming her own tail, we 
saw her curled and assumed she dreamed, 
spanning the globe with her iron grip, 
squeezing ever tighter as she slept, 
mistook her eternal cycle for a promise, 
assumed the promises she made she kept,
missed seeing the signs of life simply suspended.

The beast is waking. Do you hear her? 
Hissing and steaming from on high, 
Pele’s rapturous rest was interrupted, and 
with a great volcanic sigh she stretched and rose, 
forked tail unfurling slowly, blotting out the sun,
casting an insidious shadow we didn’t know 
would burn rather than freeze, would bring us 
to our knees, not to our senses, after all.

The beast is rearing. Do you hear her? 
Readying for battle on a field of fire we 
refused to quench, a nightmare no one believed 
would form again. Friends grow chill and soon 
their hatred blossoms into enmity. Enemies’ poison 
grows more deadly still. And we, the unprepared, 
freeze in her gaze’s glare, we helpless prey, 
assuredly the fierce predator’s intended kill.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Monday, February 26, 2018

A hint of sweetness (Day 404)

Winter is sleeping 
off an angry outburst 
now  its freshness faded  
and spring’s impending 
buds  sensing the end 
of long cold nights are 
forcing fall’s final leaves 
from their branches  
sending them flying 
toward the estuary  
striped gray and brown 
by three weeks of rain  
flooded with runoff 
from the foothills 
that glow like autumn 
in late afternoon 
when the fog breaks and
sunlight strokes last year’s 
storm-flattened grasses   
nomadic summer migrates 
northward now  fluttering  
open-ended  shallow  
but still in a deep sort of way 
and  straining toward it 
with open-mouthed desire 
we  confined to our nests  
yearn to grasp the slightest
wafer of warmth  a hint 
of sweetness in the air  
dreaming of bees humming 
over a bank of tiger lilies 
and heavy-headed peonies 
kissing the chalky gravel walk

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: John Singer Sargent, Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose (ca.1885), 
oil on canvas, photo courtesy Tate London/Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, February 25, 2018

With Disdain (Day 403)

With disdain, he considers modern women: 
ditching wifely duties, wearing sweatpants,
working on laptops after dinner instead of 
donning delightful pegnoir ensembles to 
entertain their men. So distasteful. 

They wanted to go into combat? Hah!
As far as he’s concerned, enough is enough.
Time to stop this ridiculous anti-male crap.
Time to stop trying to be men’s equals, learn 
to gratefully accept their cushy feminine fate. 

If these ghouls today really want to serve their 
country, they’ll go back to stiletto heels, micro 
skirts, and sexy lingerie. Instead of getting 
offended every time a man looks at them, ladies 
oughta smear on a little red lipstick, beautify 
the Earth like God intended they should.

After all, why would any girl pretty enough 
to hitch her little wagon to a well-heeled man 
give up all that luxury and ease—to say nothing 
of her biblical duty to take care of her husband 
and children? It’s the greatest job in the world!

The problem with modern women, he decided 
years ago, is they’re incapable of understanding 
how damn good they actually have it. Sad!

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Original images:
Housewife: Public domain image
Trump: Gage Skidmore via Flickr

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Formal reception (Day 402)

Perfect white petals.
Slight eagerness stills cupped wings.
Formal reception.

Sternly, pines balk, branches bowed.
Eloquent wind speaks her mind.

Sighing, spring retreats.
Ice reclaims still pools and ponds.
Fickle winter smiles.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: pihajutkanen/Pixabay

Friday, February 23, 2018

Moonscape (Day 401)

The artist's fingers seek and find  squelched
deep inside his rumpled linen coat 
the lawyer’s letter (signature required)  
growing damp and crumpled  there

he stands and draws his few visitors toward 
the glass   chilled by cold drafts tugged helplessly
into thin indentations   where beyond 
crackled windows   a golden moonscape glows  

a leaf grows here   a twig dries there  lizards 
lounge companionably   trying to warm their skin
in watery sunlight  requiring nothing more than 
an opportunity to taste the apple-scented air

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sahara Desert (wislamos/Pixabay)

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Courage to Look (Day 400)

Finding courage to look into the dark 
banks of your own fog is to recognize 
the rambling mind of your unfinished 
autobiography   a patch of olive-colored 
mud amidst a stretch of gaudy days  
a drift of snow in a sunburned desert 
or the price of a stubbornly creative life 
the way a child ambles through 
centuries of paradise   pockets bulging   
to unpack musical nights of rain   
laying out and smoothing the map of 
magical histories emerging like treasures 
collected at odd intervals along the way

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: jbom411/Pixabay

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Restless World (Day 399)

It used to be 
   my heart would 
but now 
       it does not
where to go.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: DEZALB/Pixabay

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Cleaning Party: A poem and a prompt for Day 398

After writing and posting nearly 400 poems in as many days, I’m not afraid to admit to the occasional lack of inspiration—or energy. When that happens, I fall back on an ever-evolving collection of favorite prompts/games/tools. 

Today, for instance, I took a trip to a random word generator, where I collected 28 words (24 the first time, plus an additional four later on). Sometimes I only use six or eight words; it just depends on my mood. I cut and paste the words into a document, and after shuffling, sorting, and adding a word here and there, inspiration (usually) strikes. 

I came up with the following poem this afternoon... I left it quite “raw” to illustrate the process. Ordinarily, I’d build a longer, or more polished, piece on this intriguing (to me) skeleton.

Cleaning Party
arms uncovered to 
their elbows
swanky visitors performed 
lively wingstrokes 
with their hands, revealing 
fabulous details, 
like vintage grates, that render 
the current, homely place 
almost likeable

outdoors, in the winter 
garden, fallacious discussion 
absorbed the bitter jobless, 
sprawled like 
recent memories amongst 
the faded begonias 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Original image: The Preservation Station 

Monday, February 19, 2018

When You Rise (Day 397)

When you rise above 
the clouds  say hello 
to the blue for me
memorize its myriad 
hues and shades from 
ice to indigo  tell me if 
you can see the stars 
when you look up or 
if they are hidden by that 
golden light warming 
your flushed cheeks  rest 
a moment on 
the terrible wind 
that bears you aloft 
and look down on 
the soft undulations of 
the sea stretching like 
bleached cotton sheets 
beneath you  only the quilts 
on our shared bed 
can enfold you as softly  
only my arms support you 
with the strength of that 
high gale and 
the roughest tides 
of time we long to sail 
together will quiet when 
you are near again

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: macayran via Pixabay

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Just Looking (Day 396)

Just looking
at the peeling paint
and thinking: Something 
is different. 

You see, I needed 
those dreams 
about my hands 
falling apart
to remember—How 
fortunate I was
to have not
locked the door.

Then I realized: 
You had already left 
the room.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: toufik Lerari via Wikimedia Commons

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Breathless (Day 395)

for the longest  that  want  time making
myself  that electric blood-singeing 
current  making you  lingering darkening
that look  widening  that rising attraction  
moving  leaning toward  when entering 
a room where another is  a moment
already  waiting a fraction of   that 
attraction too slow  long  years eagerly
outpaced  too lately  too forward  ancient 
foldings inward  unforetold distraction  
enough  just that  enough  I am  I don’t  
want that  I want that  I didn’t  but I do

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Jack Fiallos via Wikimedia

Friday, February 16, 2018

Those Unfrightened of the Dark (Day 394)

Blue buffeting those old wet bricks,
cars rumble over cobblestones 
too slippery for walking 
when the chestnuts shed their leaves. 
Night falls, burdens lighten for some, 
the daytime world is squirreled away, 
protected until sunrise. 
Those unfrightened of the dark may
wander, read, dance, play, fight, drink, 
and hope their eyes adjust, or risk 
the quicksand of nostalgia.
If the song’s not right, the perfume 
floating on a summer breath—jasmine, 
sweat, a baby-soft trainwreck of scent
—might lure the unfortunate into their 
own sweet mysteries, tangled as kudzu 
in the trees that line the roads back home.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Skeeze/Pixabay

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Black Coffee in Handpainted Mug (Day 393)

too bitter 
to ignore 
the purr it 
releases  finding 
purchase on 
the porcelain 
glaze  cobalt 
devoid of 
the grit and 
one might expect 
on an everyday
object made 
of clay intricately 
painted by 
tired-eyed woman 
in a dusty 
crowded room
so far away 
I cannot begin 
to imagine 
the language
she speaks
in her dreams.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

The Painter (Day 392)

summer’s verdant, musky vines 
painter consumed by her canvas

wildflower ghosts of spring
in a frigid, well-lit space

mushroom-colored, winter day
brushes slay dragons of gloom

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Helen Galloway McNicoll, The Apple Gatherer (c. 1900), oil on canvas

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Safer Than This (Day 391)

I wish the world felt 
safer than this 
where, every evening, 
I lay my head amidst 
a firestorm of wild mustangs, 
steely hooves trailing sparks, 
thundering without warning 
down the narrow, 
perfumed path that 
no longer bears the weight 
of my few belongings

where yellowing bottles 
of laudanum dreams 
offer an ease, akin to 
daylight’s first soft fingers 
tickling my cheek, warm 
as laughter under the covers, 
last night’s violet silk 
shimmying on the bedpost 
in a lingering echo of smoke 
and dancehall jazz 

where hungry wolves, 
roused from their dens 
in the frozen woods, pace 
through the long, winter nights
—their claws puncturing 
the tense, icy crust 
with each step—waiting for me 
to emerge into the cold

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Bhakti2/Pixabay