Tuesday, March 20, 2018

No poem. Just an honest letter about my dog.

I am too upset to write a poem. So I’m just going to write. And hope I don’t regret it tomorrow.

The next door neighbor’s dog attacked my dog.

She is OK, just injured. A miracle, considering the other dog is a “Pit” known to be vicious. She saved her daddy’s life (and HE most definitely saved hers).

This is a bad neighborhood, with a lot of crime. Not the kind of place where I spent my life, but since I got sick with ME/CFS, and live on SSDI, this was all I could afford.

It’s not worth it, though. 

Living here is not safe for our spirits, let alone our bodies. I don’t want any of us to live here any more, and will eat 99-cent ramen if nevessary to make that change happen. 

For tonight, though, the dog and her dad are safe and sleeping. And I am laying here, trying not to think about the suffering neighbor-dog, injured during the “prying off” process, whose owner refused to take him to the vet. 

Trying not to think about how the police and animal welfare officers refused to respond to the scene because it is snowing.

Trying to feel safe, and not sad about how shitty life feels right now. Trying to quell a feeling of helpless rage. And to resign myself to dealing with this until we are able to leave.

Finally, reminding myself of the few neighbors on the block who reached out to help by calling the cops, running over with a pry-bar of some sort, and asking, later, how Lucky is doing. The world isn’t all bad.

A terrible photo of beautiful Lucky

Monday, March 19, 2018

Up Three Flights (Day 425)

Sandals landing on wooden 
steps like flat palms 
on drums  she runs up three 
flights and knocks back
humid air  thick 
with the scent 
of undergrowth  sweet 
and dark as late-summer 
midnight sweat on clean 
sheets  thinly sliced 
coral from a corner streetlight 
falling through bamboo shades 
across the bed  and his head 
less peaceful  less quiet 
than she knew  on the pillow 
for now anyway  a place to rest 
her mind when the present 
feels too sharp  because 
understanding is worth 
the effort  but you don’t always 
have to do it in the dark

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Edited image found on Pexels

Sunday, March 18, 2018

All Those Beautiful Places (Day 424)

I was there when 
that small warm bundle 
called life dangled limply 
in your arms a load of laundry 
bound for the line or a chilly 
expression of reticence on 
a face once generous 
as grandma’s whipped-cream 
fudge and fresh-from-the-garden 
berries served sunwarm with 
our breakfast every morning 
the artist doesn’t tell she shows
and deserves a snap of the fingers 
for all those beautiful places 
where magically even when 
there is no peace
there is still love

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Infidel Savior (Day 423)

Poverty givers rise cavorting clambering over masses who collapse and fall scythes whipping through spring blossoms like sharp beaks strip off soft bark exposing insects hiding underneath 

Their highest blunders oozes siren words poison to disparate pens unsheaths and sinks his fleet sword’s blade in to the hilt and twists like death on a swinging rope lips curled in a vulpine sneer

Infidel savior poverty giver tilting his resilient hate at guiltless guileless dreamers unaware of his voracious plague growing fierce on their unspoken fears and silent sleepless nights 

That brilliant terror festers under victims’ thin-stretched skin while his beknighted demons stroke and savor fevered brows drooling for a payoff drunk on inbound self-branded hell

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Friday, March 16, 2018

You Say (Day 422)

You say no
more are coming

In the near future
we will see

You’re not finished
chewing, spitting

But you can’t make
red out of blue

No matter how
you rearrange things

One man only
speaks in lies

Millions more 
will bear the cost

Only one man
knows the truth

Losing side won,
but, winning, lost.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: US Dept. of Homeland Security/
Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Late Start (Day 421)

Day starts late, suppressed
by the covers’ sodden weight;
midmorning by the time I rise 
and dress to walk the patient dog.

White sheet of clouds obscures 
the sky, shaved clean by blades
of arctic wind that pierce through 
fleece and wool, so we retreat.

Wavy-glass panes protest 
each gust, but no chill intrudes,
and we bask in our solitude,
the sun-drunk cat, the dog, and I.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Sycophants (Day 420)

The emperor’s newest sycophants
bow lower than the old,
go along with his delusions,
do exactly as they’re told.
They crave his bark, invite his bite,
encourage him to rant all night,
and feed his insecurities,
to keep him in their hold.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Black backed jackals at dawn in Kruger 
National Park; South Africa, by Javier Ábalos

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Man of the Year (Day 419)

Thoughts coming rapid-fire in ALL CAPS, thumbs 
thwacking the screen, he pauses to consider his 

next bite, chews thoughtfully, hands the half-eaten 
cheeseburger to his wife, who wrinkles her nose as 

she turns away, because he can’t stand her 
insinuating that his bedtime snacks smell nasty, 

and she can’t stand to listen to him yelling, ranting,
demanding, spittle flying, night after night after night.

He seems unable to stop thumping out explosions
of text, punctuated by grunts and farts, creased and 

folded face purpling whenever some asshole journalist
mocks an all-too-human mistake, or even accuses him

HIM?—of deliberately spreading false information
(they have even gone so far as to call him a liar).

Never would he have expected to encounter blatant 
insubordination now that he’s become so...so exalted!

To be honest, though, he was shocked (and rather 
appalled) to find most of his new job so extremely 

confusing and complicated. He misses his own bed, 
his gold toilet seat’s silken warmth against his skin,

and, most of all, he misses watching the sunrise over the 
nation’s REAL capital. But, no. Instead, he’s mired in 

this stinking swamp—a true backwater if ever one existed—
with nothing to show for it but a poorly-photoshopped Man 
of the Year” magazine cover someone forgot they’d Xeroxed.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Monday, March 12, 2018

Cafés & Libraries (Day 418)

Often, I dream of sidewalk cafés 
and cavernous libraries, where
old men gather to read the papers
and doze. I weigh my options 
in the palm of my hand: Peach, 
pear, or apricot? Will the fruit’s 
fragrant meat resist the pressure 
of my teeth, or will it succumb 
easily, carelessly divulging juicy 
secrets? Somewhere, someone’s 
chair scrapes the stone-cold floor. 
A spine cracks. I stretch. My spine 
cracks. A woman walks by quickly,
remarkably poised, seemingly 
unaware of her squeaky left sandal. 
Collecting my things, I ready myself 
to rejoin the sundrunk joy of April 
outside this cool, dim, ink-and-paper 
world. Fast asleep, silver-whiskers 
and unruly eyebrows twitching, 
the man to my right dozes, snuffles 
now and then, and, squinting into 
the hazy midday glare, I find myself 
wondering if he, too, dreams about
sidewalk cafés and cavernous libraries, 
where girls with leather satchels 
and ripe pears pass through wooden 
doors into the spring-white light.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org Dr. Gustav Stresemann, German Foreign Minister, sitting at the terrace of a cafe, reading the newspapers Photograph 1930 Published: ca. 1930.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

Wondering (Day 417)

I am wondering about your heart,
but will not ask directly. Is it safe? 
Or are you anxious it might break?
Tell me: Do you ever open 
the floodgates just to feel 
the exquisite release of pressure, 
water thundering, tremendous 
power focused by boundaries 
you were unable to build 
back then? You always were 
uncomfortable when I noticed 
your submerged emotions. 
When I questioned your repression, 
you withdrew. So I stopped. These days, 
when I’m asked what you’re doing,
when they wonder how you are, 
when they wonder if we still talk
to each other, I just smile and say: 
‘That’s OK. You know, 
wonder is seldom fatal.’

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: TakehisaYumeji, Woman in Cafe (unfinished)
(1915), oil on canvas, 

Saturday, March 10, 2018

Very Few Women (Day 416)

Very few women my age 
worked with visionaries. 
We were too busy: talking, 
frosting birthday cakes,
mopping the floors to
a mirrorlike finish. Really, 
being a housewife was
a very big deal. Respectable. 
My friends and I grew up 
looking forward to keeping 
our own homes. Now, it’s 
called something different: 
domestic engineering.
These young girls today, 
they think they want it all: 
Dating, college, husbands, 
corner-office careers, and 
then the kids, and those 
ridiculous jogging strollers—
they don’t run enough?
We could have done it all,
too, of course, but we 
focused on raising our sons 
and daughters to be less like 
their parents. Well, I for one 
am just glad I was able to be 
there for my children when 
they came home from school. 
The world is different now, 
though, isn’t it? Too expensive. 
And dangerous—all these men 
with guns, shooting everyone! 
Who knows? My turn may be 
next. Or yours. So, we’ll see.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ArtsyBee/Pixabay

Friday, March 9, 2018

High Noon, Parts 1–4 (Day 415)

It's like pointing 
to a burning building 
and yelling “Snow!”
An emergency 
of cheap vodka 
and small sterile men
of vocal fry 
and more than 8,000 
California sea lions 
residing on Sri Lanka’s 
southernmost shore. 

Some talk about 
policy, about the need 
for studies of studies 
and committees 
to study the studies.
Others (predictably)
will blame 
the hordes 
of unconverted, 
whose mere longing 
sullies the very idea 
of heaven.

Nature’s death 
threats heartily ignored,
we, the unwilling, 
find ourselves 
the world burn 
down, which is, after all,
easier and more 
than taking action 
to offset our ignorance.

Less painful, too, 
than acknowledging 
no planetary fire 
escape exists, no 
grand galaxial 
firefighters coming 
to rescue us,
to quell the flames 
lapping at our hearts
and our bare toes, 
as we stand 
on the shore, waving 
goodbye to 
yet another day.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Moss covered lava field, Grindavik, Iceland, Chris Ford/Flickr

Thursday, March 8, 2018

High Noon, Part 3 (Day 414)

Nature’s death 
threats heartily ignored,
we, the unwilling, 
find ourselves 
the world burn 
down, which is, after all,
easier and more 
than taking action 
to offset our ignorance.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: US Dept. of Defense (Master Sgt. Christopher DeWitt, U.S. Air Force)

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

High Noon, Part 2 (Day 413)

Some talk about 
policy, about the need 
for studies 
and studies of studies 
and committees 
to study the studies.
Others (predictably)
 will blame 
   the hordes 
     of unconverted, 
whose mere longing 
    the very idea 
of heaven.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

High Noon, Part 1 (Day 412)

It's like pointing 
to a burning building 
and yelling: “Snow!”
An emergency 
of cheap vodka 
and small sterile men,
of ubiquitous vocal fry 
and 8,000 or more
California sea lions 
taking up permanent 
residence on Sri Lanka’s 
southernmost shore.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Kalutara Beach, Sri Lanka (Trip & Travel Blog/Flickr)

Monday, March 5, 2018

Haiku for Day 411

Peeling paper birch.
Firework orange, the sun sinks.
Silence feels colder. 

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: ilyessuti/Pixabay

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Too Many Apples (Day 410)

a heart wary of commitment
afraid of cutting 
more roses
than the vase can hold
or peeling 
too many apples 
for the holiday pie
a feeling like a little twinge 
of nostalgia for 
slices of coral sand 
and oceans
       so bright
           they singe the eyes
or like one too many 
long late meetings 
    at the office, 
while, at home,
I change the sheets 
on our old bed and clean 
all the windows
until they seem to disappear

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Jeremy Hiebert/Flickr