Saturday, June 30, 2018

Fantasies of Fame (Day 528)

Well-lit lives   intriguing 
after dark   phosphorescent 
fantasies of fame   of exotic 
adventure   prearranged 
synchronicities   prepaid
possibilities   and sudden
certain as death   they remain   
redecorate the old 
unfulfillable wonder    
too fragile to bear   wandering 
shadows  trailing cathedral 
trains   veils of filmy whispers 
with a practiced grace 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wind buffets the bride's veil and train at the wedding 
of Cyril Ritchard and Madge Elliott, St. Mary's Cathedral, 
Sydney, September 16, 1935 (National Library of Australia)

Believe it or not, I wrote today’s poem before finding this
fabulous, perfect image—and then realized June 30 was 
my grandparents’ wedding anniversary...

Friday, June 29, 2018

When He Thought (Day 527)

When he thought 
she wouldn’t 
see him 
yet she did   out 
there   under pre-dawn
where everyone could 
watch   his eyes 
shining with surprise   
dread dragging at her 

When the darkness 
rushed up 
behind her   footsteps 
quickening   velvet arms 
grasping at her 
secret childish fears   
what would she have 
said   had he 
told her   

Who hears such things 
with equanimity   
who dives 
into midnight   dressed 
in black   bare feet 
on hot pavement   as if 
she believes herself 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Rodrigo Paredes/Flickr

Thursday, June 28, 2018

Inside (Day 526)

I was so angry
At you
Until we met

Before us
There was only
And noise

Like thunder
These walls

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Gifts of a Single Night (Day 525)

Winding music 
     trailing from a tall sky
Strings of green 
     lights rising 
     over bright-mown mist
In the middle mingle
The half-risen moon
     with ragged silver veils
Venus her solitaire
     presented for 
     the tribute of a kiss
While inside the world 
     is emptied
     hollowed by grief  
All of this and more
     gifts of 
     a single night in June

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Monday, June 25, 2018

Burnside Bridge (Day 523)

Archly playing one side 
against the other, 
she stretches 
toes in the stream.
Once wild, she 
conquered it, firmed 
the weak edges, provided 
a new perspective.
And, when that 
sparkling water slowed
to a blood-thick trickle
at her feet, she did not 
collapse, but remained 
stalwart for those 
who needed her 
strength more than she 
needed to fall 
to her knees and weep.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Piotrus via Wikimedia Commons
Multi-license with GFDL and Creative Commons 
CC-BY-SA-2.5 and older versions (2.0 and 1.0)

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Kindnesses, No.4 (Day 522)

Kindness is like that, she added.

Like that moment of surprise
and wonder, when you reach 
into the pocket of a jacket 
you last wore months ago, and 
pull out a $20 bill you tucked
there in a hurry, and then forgot. 

Like when you come in from 
working under a hot sun, 
sweating and parched, and 
someone hands you a tall glass 
of water, cool enough to refresh, 
tepid enough to gulp greedily, 
with no fear of a headache.

Like savoring a wonderful novel, 
not wanting it to end, then learning 
it is the first in a long series, with 
several books to come, promising 
months of contented evenings.

Unexpected. Simple. Delightfully 
abundant. Yes, she said, 
kindness is often like that.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Saturday, June 23, 2018

Wallow (Day 521)

When life feels, deeply, 
like shit—
and sometimes it will, 
for hours, days, or 
even years—I’ve learned 
that the best thing 
you can do is to make 
like a big pink sow 
and wallow.
Because, when it’s shit, 
no matter how hard 
you try to fight it, 
I promise: 
It’s simply gonna stink. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Steven Lek/WikimediaCommons

Friday, June 22, 2018

Kindnesses, No.3 (Day 520)

How tenderly 
the bee caresses 
the fragile blossom.

How affectionately 
the blossom embraces 
the delicate bee.

How generously 
Nature endowed 
Her darlings 
          with kindness. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: filinUla/Pixabay

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Kindnesses, No.2 (Day 519)


the kindest words 

are those 
that remain 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Portrait of Marie Antoinette (1755-1793), 
attributed to Martin van Meytens, oil on canvas 

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Kindnesses, No.1 (Day 518)

And she told me  once
toward the end:
Of all the kindnesses 
I have received  and 
there have been many  
the ones I remember 
most  cost the giver 
nothing at all.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Quieten (Day 517)

When she turned it was green 
or was it violet   the light 
in his eyes sharp as the pinprick 
scratch of dried grass beneath 
his shoulders   his mother used 
to favor an odd word: quieten   
quieten yourself now   she would say 
when he or one of his sisters 
cried or got out of hand   but peace 
is absent here   where someone 
has been painting the land around 
him all the shades of autumn

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Lillaby/Pixabay

Monday, June 18, 2018

Looking Through Diamonds (Day 516)

Looking through
tiny diamonds
the world   sliced 
into gem-shaped  
sections   none small 
enough  large enough   
each glimpse 
too micro   too macro   
to be of any use
except to those 
who have no need

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MrMagooICU/Flickr

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Listening To You (Day 515)

Listening, I can’t hear you 
in the other room where 
you used to read and write 
long after dark.

I can’t hear your fingers on 
the keys, the steady breath 
of words blooming like steam
on your page,

Your footsteps, your whistling
or humming odd snatches of 
songs—even your silences—

Leaving only a persistent scent 
of absence lingering on the air, 
where I spent countless hours 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Dedicated to Rob Bamberger, with heaps of gratitude 
for nearly 40 decades of Hot Jazz Saturday Nights

Image: MaxPixel

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Fields of White and Red (Day 514)

transparent trouble blooms
in fields of white and red 
raising tales of dank 
insatiable fear   running in 
dark dashes and dusky 
currents   painting the gutters 
carmine lips motion 
to confront 
but say nothing   knotting 
cords of leaping words 
foreign yet familiar 
temples of justice dangle 
poverty like baskets of candy 
for starving children   stomachs 
full but distended beneath 
wide umbrellas of trouble

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Richard Probst/Flickr

Friday, June 15, 2018

Overnight Passenger (Day 513)

Thirsting for an open door, he wanders 
the aisle, empty at this advanced hour 
of blue laptop glare and sepia lighting.   
Gentle snores, rustling newspapers, and 
muted conversations roll with the motion 
beating, lifelike, beneath his feet.   

Gripping seat backs with both hands—
he does not want to land shamefaced in 
a stranger’s lap—he makes his way toward
the rear of the car, hoping some careless 
conductor foraging for unpunched tickets 
may have left the door ajar. 

Gone are the days, he tells himself, when 
passengers lingered on outside platforms, 
red-tipped cigarettes dangling from numb 
fingers. Longing for a time he never knew, 
he imagines people felt less encumbered 
by rules intended to keep them safe, free 
to choose their risks in pursuing the small 
pleasures that smooth life’s rough edges. 

No open door. Thirst unsated, he slumps 
into an empty seat and writhes, impatient. 
The night’s unbearable dreariness and the 
tepid, musty air sparks a barely-discernible 
panic deep in his gut, leaving little chance 
of sleep, and the relief of dreams.

When at last he disembarks, he gulps the 
cold wind blowing down the platform, and 
squeezes his eyes in exaggerated blinks 
to clear his vision. 

Just then, above his left shoulder, a familiar 
face brightens a tinted window in the next-
to-last car. He starts. His step stutters briefly, 
but when, suddenly alert, he looks again, 
the window is vacant. 

Commuters gush from every door he might 
use to reboard. His discomposure goes 
unnoticed. Around him, intent on its single 
goal, the crowd roils and surges, leaving 
no choice but to surrender to its command 
and be carried forward into the echoing, 
coffee-scented station. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Thursday, June 14, 2018

This Desert (Day 512)

We have seen this
desert where 
you would send
the innocent.
We have seen this
desert where
their lives will grow
hard and barren.
We have seen this
desert where 
you will nurture
their nightmares.
It is empty.
Nearly as empty
as your hearts. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Underwater Day (Day 511)

Underwater day
Emerald air flows like silence
Fan oscillates 

Outdoors, indistinct voices
Revolving hours drift, dilute

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six 

Image: Biscayne National Park,
Courtesy US National Parks Service

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Outside of Time (Day 510)

Have you ever sat 
outside of time? 
Eternal, immobile as 
a towering mountain? 
Felt the wind ruffle 
your hair, the same 
way it tousles leaves 
in old-growth forests? 
Quiet, still, knowing 
where and when you 
are, being everywhere, 
always. Just you, and 
your willingness to let 
go, allowing your hard 
edges to soften and 
melt into the sinuous 
estuary of which you 
are but a drop.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere