Friday, August 31, 2018

One-Woman Show (Day 590)

In February, 
they swirled together 
an ungodly amount 
of money 
and presented her 
with an amusing job 
as a super villain
a one-woman show
that cost her only 
a single sigh of relief 
and a gallon 
of the kind of honey 
that’s better than vinegar   
and there  without a doubt  
in time
in the endless patchwork 
lowlands  her truth 
will out   and it will all 
have been for nothing

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Home Again (Day 589)

And suddenly, you were home again.

And below and all around you, lightning 
whipped the wind-scoured prairie.

And the sky turned violet, and then black, 
dusted with ribbons of galaxies.

And in the paddock at the end of the road, 
four white horses grazed.

And when you walked in their direction, 
you always stuffed carrots in your pockets.

And once, one of the horses had a snout 
full of porcupine quills.

And when summer came, folks sat out 
in their back yards until late.

And their kids, energized by by the cool air, 
made up games with complicated, 
ever-evolving rules.

And chiggers chewed your legs, leaving trails 
of hellish itching, until you were almost afraid 
of what you couldn’t see.

And in mid-summer, the rodeo, and hot dogs, 
and red-white-and-blue, and motorcycles, 
and dust mixed with sweat mixed with dust. 

And then the aspens turned a brilliant yellow.

And you imagined that sitting among them 
was like being inside the sun.

And then the snow came, always measured 
not in inches, but in feet.

And the cold was so dry, you could barely 
feel it until it was too late. 

And once, when you shoveled the driveway, 
your face froze, but you didn’t know.

And when you couldn’t move your mouth 
to answer a neighbor’s question, he sent you 
indoors to thaw out.

And then, one day, you packed your things 
in your car, and drove away.

And maybe you forgot to tell the hills 
and the prairie, because they didn’t know.

And even now, they are waiting for you 
to come home again.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Spearfish Falls, Spearfish Canyon, 

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

Tuesday Evening (Day 588)

Linens drying on a line.
Fading to lavender,
distant hills settle with 
an almost-audible sigh.
Overhead, birds flock,
wheeling black-feathered
waves fierce enough to 
darken the sky, poignant 
sign of summer’s demise, 
making a precious delicacy 
of even the most ordinary 
Tuesday evening. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

“...and lemon peels.” (Day 587)

“...and lemon peels.”

in a small notebook   written 
neatly   in my own hand:

words of such significance  
I devoted an entire page  
(otherwise untouched)  
to remembering them

and now   I cannot 
remember why

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Monday, August 27, 2018

That Was When (Day 586)

I won  for you 
a trip around 
the world   the moon
suspended  heavy 
as a tasteless diamond 
in a sapphire sky
over the Bosphorus
did nothing 
to endear me 
to you
I built  for you
a castle of glass
and clouds  and mirrors  
clear as air   every surface 
so soft it broke 
the heart   while cradling 
the soul   
but it did not sway you
I placed in your arms
a tiny dream 
sweet and warm 
and pink and gold and blue 
named for no one else 
we knew   and he 
smiled like you 
as you handed him 
back to me  again.
That was when.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: (CC BY-SA 3.0)
via Wikimedia Commons 

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Coming Storms (Day 585)

Chrysanthemum clouds
burst like distant autumn.
Leaves fall—diving, delighted 
birds—float briefly, and sink 
into a cold, bronze mirror.
Sweetly spiced and warm 
as tea, the rising wind
warns of coming storms.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixnio

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Brief Respite (Day 584)

Pearl gray morning 
lifts birds to their wings. 
Cherries glow 
gold-red in leafy bowers 
daring the wind. 
Above, a sky fading to blue, 
carries an afternoon 
promise in fat clouds rolling, 
languidly, like sleepy lovers 
on the horizon, 
as if they have all the time 
in the world. 
Nothing else is happening 
now.  Listen—cicadas sing.
A doe picks her way
through the dense forest,
snapping a twig here
and there. Nothing else 
is truly happening.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Friday, August 24, 2018

Rest Assured (Day 583)

A subtle touch of hope 
is unmistakable  a tinge of 
roasting coffee  
a shady table  in front
of which the world 
parades  bright 
as spring fever  how joyful 
the sound of our voices
like the dancing splash 
of a jazz-age revelry 

most of us know the end 
is in sight  it may not appear
in technicolor today  but 
we’ve cast off much holier hopes

we feel in our bones the singing 
urgency of a summer fountain 
the late-night  hot wail 
rising  to slide into that 
casual debauchery 
common to anyone 
with a closet full of the dull 
browns and grays 
of our extended mourning

rest assured  the waiting 
is over
be inspired  or 
if you are of a different ilk  
seek salvation

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pete Souza/Obama White House Archives
(CC BY 3.0 US)

Thursday, August 23, 2018

On the Edge (Day 582)

Box open, chocolates 
revealed in all their 
mysterious richness.
Reaching, fingertips 
hover. A fine tremble 
belies the moment’s 
seriousness. Discreet, 
velvety centers revealed 
only to those willing 
to taste, to risk the most 
exquisite disappointment 
on the edge of 
something so sweet.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PhilRiley427/Pixabay

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Fluttering (Day 581)

Leaves, like smiles, 
on every breath.

Wind, like leaves,
restlessly rustling 
and shifting.

Rain, like wind,
scattering tiny  
sparks of cool light.

Stars, like rain,
drenching the world 
in every hue of delight. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Michael Brown/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Double Standard (Day 580)

I’m interested in knowing 
why he walks all over me 
stomping heavily on my head 
with his hard-soled shoes
while I’m sick in bed. 

I’m interested in knowing
why he thought no one 
would say he is a liar
when his stories grow 
more ridiculous by the day.

I’m interested in knowing
why he got away with
a heinous crime against
a sedated woman while 
all she got was the blame.

I’m just interested
that’s all.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Monday, August 20, 2018

A Dragon Rises (Day 579)

I dreamt the tail of a kite 
was beckoning to us from the park, 
white as a dove’s wing 
against the backdrop of a cobalt bay, 
wind-whipped and boistrous, 
dancing to the music of a rare 
sun-soaked summer’s day, laughing 
(the way we always did) at 
under-dressed tourists shivering in 
their ‘summer’ clothes, 
and now, a massive dragon rises 
tastes the salted breeze, circling 
and looping like a living rainbow, 
among the day’s lesser offerings, 
scrying our fortunes in the clear 
gazing-ball of a cloudless sky, and 
the crowd, sprawled on blankets, coats, 
and towels, sighs in concert, leaning 
back on grass-damp elbows, 
squinting, all eyes turned upward, 
soaking in the magic of a Sunday matinée.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Jack Wolf/Flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Here Lie Heroes (Day 578)

Was it worth it   
you tell me 
seeing them   stacked 
like logs  three deep   
a stream of empty vessels   
where once brothers  
sons and lovers breathed   
their blues and grays 
and browns   now dyed 
the singular shade of 
dried   and drying   blood   
the weighted air freshly 
silent after the last 
of the dying’s done   
some believed   you know   
some didn’t   
some were brash   most  
scared   courage blooms 
when death stirs turning 
treetops   and willingness 
does not a hero make    so   
here lie heroes   
when called they answered   
can you blame them
what choice did they have  
after all   
what choice were they given

Words and image (c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Friday, August 17, 2018

The Lilac Room (Day 576)

That was the year I wanted to paint 
my bedroom the precise pale lilac 
of a floral print on a beautiful pillow 
I found on clearance in a local boutique. 
But, worried lavender would look silly, 
I settled for a nice sky blue, and that 
only on a single “accent” wall.
That bedroom is far behind me, 
but I still have the little pillow.
Now and then, I look at it and think 
about that devastating year, and how
it might have been a little sweeter
if I could have enjoyed my lilac room, 
if I had trusted my purest instincts, 
if I had found a way to say Yes to myself. 
And, I wonder:  To how many other 
yesses might that choice have led me?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Mary Cassatt, Lilacs in a Window (1880), 
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Those less elegant (Day 575)

Unlikely, she thought, that, 
other than him, anyone had 
stroked her forehead in years, 
singing low to anchor her 
in dreams, like novels, 
where she found herself 
immersed in a fog-shrouded, 
high-school swimming pool 
that reminded her of the power 
she once savored, when someone 
believed she was the most 
beautiful girl in the world.   
Now, viewing the past from 
her butterfly-firm footing, 
how they overwhelm her, 
those less elegant memories.
How they obscure the present,
those early games, and 
the lingering songs her mother
would sing, sitting at her bedside, 
until she relaxed and slipped 
away, like water.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere