Friday, April 20, 2018

Cherry Trees (Day 457)

Earth sways  cavorts  
shakes loose from leafless 
cherry trees  a dozen brilliant 
blossoms  bouncing  nestling  
finally resting on deep green 
velvet ground  among a crowd 
of bluebells  bowing  nodding 
to the lingering day


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Like Shackles (Day 456)

Backing out of our considered 
indifference, like shackles 
increasing gelatinous fear, 
adrenaline clouds 
falling into place beneath 
a fanned-out inversion 
of raised hackles. 
What we observed 
made no sense, 
so we only took notes 
in our little books. 
What we noted made us 
howl and surge. 
Five storms descended 
and we preserved the fallen 
behind chemically-etched glass 
sheets for later observation, 
in case anyone should ask, 
in case anyone should remember.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Today Our Traitors... (Day 455)


today our traitors 
  confessed
and began to pack  eager 
  to do nothing 
  good  different  worrisome
they took virtually 
everything 
  they wanted
  their friends wanted  
spoke fickle praise  dramatically 
while the flames they fanned 
consumed 
  their illicit affairs 
all evidence disintegrated  
and now they are allowed
to leave  
  their names  their strict honor 
  intact  
to leave 
  this place  
  less improved than broken 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

The Empty Beach (Day 454)

You could sling a stone from the ranch 
and it would land in the sea, plunking,
tumbling to the bottom: a submarine 
garden of undulating anemones, 
slumbering in the sway 
of the afternoon tide,
where swift-gliding fish 
flashed silver in shafts of sunshine 
or in sweeping beams 
from the lighthouse late at night

You could sling a stone from the ranch 
and hit the sea—it was that close—
but why would we have 
done such a thing, when we could 
clamber down the cliffs, run 
the length of the empty beach, 
hide in the flat-bottomed cave, 
only to wander home hours later, 
taking pocketsful of fossilized mollusks, 
in exchange for the echoes of our voices, 
and two trails of fugitive footprints.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wendy Seltzer/Wikimedia Commons

Monday, April 16, 2018

Revolving Door (Day 453)


She craves 
the tonic of truth,
the flavor of 
cold canteloupe 
honey-sweet and 
slippery  sliced thin as 
mountain morning air 
She yearned 
to wander through 
the labyrinth of language  
to spin in and out 
of the revolving door 
between 
the Summer of Love’s
fizzing orange 
and unripe green 
and the cobalt blue
Reagan era’s satin  sequins 
and cheap gold plate 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Summer of lapsed attention (Day 452)

She cannot undo her summer 
of lapsed attention in exotic 
lands  sledding downhill and
drinking sparkling lime tinged
with juniper  a miraculous 
invisible line of “but” “yet” and 
“though” traces a path from 
forehead to willing heart  
without doubt  without abandon  
mingling with the bitter things 
that make her mouth hard 
to know  the slow travel of 
an ordinary life among the humid 
evening hours  She proceeds 
to talk strikingly about the shame 
of being unfathomable  suspended
on ribbons of blue smoke between 
her previous life and the next



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Cyprus (public domain)

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Areas of Weakness (Day 451)


following you around 
laughing or playing
suffering needlessly 
in the middle   blue 
as fieldstone and long 
as a ride along to our
broken places  muddling 
our meaning because
they are neighborhood 
voices  agitated  come out 
to soak up asphalt heat
under a violet fence 
the kind movie cowboys 
ride along to check 
for areas of weakness 
in need of repair

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six


Image: Black Cowboys
Negro State Fair, Bonham, TX 
c.1913 via Wikimedia Commons

Friday, April 13, 2018

In that other world (Day 450)


Opening this day
unwrapping it  so
green and soft and 
newly breathing
distractions away
in that other world
where hurry and
wanting took root
invasive  flourishing
like children did 
before the world took 
on a blue glare  floating 
on the surface  opening 
to the fire  the swish 
the bark and bite
and horror and grind 
of the day and the subtle 
way it lingers on your 
lips  a gentle touch 
of forgetfulness  let it 
always be like this



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Tommie Hansen/Flickr
(La Pelosa beach, Sardinia)

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Spring Tanka (Day 449)


Deep, full breath of spring.
Windows thrown open at last.
Even the house sighs.

The peach blossoms assure me:
This is not a rehearsal.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: PxHere

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Dear 46 (Day 448)


we are sorry 
to hand you
such tarnished keys
but hope 
you will find 
in the violence 
he engendered 
the havoc 
he wreaked 
a million or more 
opportunities 
for miracles


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Tom Thai/Flickr

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Background Music (Day 447)


his well-bred tenor voice 
manages to be both 
decorous and ingratiating  
just a touch too loud  
  there’s really no need for 
  the fireplace when it’s so hot 
  except for ambience  
  they probably lit it on purpose 
  to sweat people into buying 
  more drinks   
now and then her eyes dart 
around to see if anyone is 
listening  but mostly she nods 
and smiles distractedly  
  look how gaily the sun is 
  beating down on the windows
  —isn’t it amusing? 
a wistful southern gentleness 
reminding you of background 
music at an elegant lawn party



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Monday, April 9, 2018

When November Comes (Day 446)


Even the silence is quiet today.   
The last of Autumn’s leaves flocked 
and flew away in a late-winter storm,  
so this afternoon’s peace remains 
unmarred by their bird-like scuttling
on the root-buckled sidewalk. 

From my glass of tea, just within reach 
on a slatted wood table, condensation 
trickles and falls onto the damp, 
shaded  grass below, its intermittent  
drip drip marking these gentle moments.

And, though I can remember the bitter 
feel of February, my body is incapable 
of knowing it—with this dappled light 
insinuating itself so intimately into my 
blood—nor do I want to. There will be 
time enough for frost and snow, 
when November comes again.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Ankyn/Pixabay, further altered

Sunday, April 8, 2018

Imperfect (Day 445)

look                      over there
see                       where 
we once were       it seems     
like                        always  
the                        sun               
moon                    and stars were
blazing                  red 
raging                   with anger        
in the west            don’t tell me 
their                      God’s in             
charge                  my spirit
still                        bears the 
prophesied           scars





(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sorbyphoto/Pixabay

Saturday, April 7, 2018

Delegation of Girls (Day 444)

Imagination is travel 
a frail blessing   redeeming 
this urgent trip 
     on which 
the delegation of girls is 
     beginning to feel 
        like doing very little 
but they are 
     creating and giving  
     crying and embracing
     waking everyone 
yet having no idea 
where to find   
or place   their love


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Friday, April 6, 2018

Behind Him (Day 443)

he hasn’t met her 
yet   but when he looks 
back   he sees her 
there   behind him   
just around the corner 
he just rounded   and 
before him 
is the woman he knew 
yesterday   who is 
no longer someone 
he knows   but someone 
he has yet to meet


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Ever (Day 442)

Sun sliding
behind the hills, 
we sat 
on the floor, 
knees crossed, and 
you told me that 
if I asked you to 
stay 
you would 
throw it all away 
for me. 
Why didn’t you
leave then? 
Could you not 
see that 
by giving up 
your own dreams, 
you were 
also damning mine?
Or didn’t you
understand that
what I meant
when I asked 
you not to leave, 
was: Ever.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ribastank/Pixabay

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

In this land (Day 441)


You read me   so slowly  
    like a stranger   

you act 
    like I don’t know 
what you mean  

    when you pretend  
you can’t 
    understand me  

you don’t 
    understand

    a thing  
you don’t 
    know 

    what it means 
to be so alone 
    
in this land  so full  
    of people  all taking 
care of their own



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Privacy... (Day 440)


The hat you wear 
when you do not want 
to be recognized, 
wide brim blocking out
the midday sun, 
keeping you safe from 
prying eyes 
so you can enjoy your 
ice cream incognito


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Monday, April 2, 2018

Coming Years (Day 439)

imagining majestic scenes 
and indigo horizons, 
steeling himself, he walks 
purposefully toward his first flight, 
white-knuckled 
grip on the leather handles 
of his bags

before today, exotic meant 
a drive-up in a neighboring state,
a girl whose seamed hose 
looked almost as soft as her 
bare legs, and dancing 
to jazzy music, late at night, 
in the parking lot 

the symphonic prairie, 
vast—glowing as it would in all 
his coming years 
of dreams—blooming beneath 
the milky way, blowsy 
and heavy with memories 
as a late-autumn rose.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: EvgeniT/Pixabay