Sunday, September 30, 2018

A Little Campfire Story (Day 620)

At the bottom of a day’s adventures, 
our flashlight beams lit the undersides
of arching redwood branches, beneath
which we spread our sleeping bags and 
hid our stash of books. 

Well after the moon had set, something 
woke us—a sound, a grunt, a baby’s cry, 
a strangled little moan from the friend
shivering beside me. 

Peeking toward the campfire, I saw only 
an absence of light, a gaping, bear-shaped 
hole. I shushed my friend. We needed to 
remain silent, completely still. And so,
we did, until our silence led us back into 
the landscapes of our dreams. 

Years later, and—aside from a tie-cord 
ripped from the foot of my sleeping bag, 
and a handful of ursine tracks, both 
large and small, that night, like all good 
nights, has retained its mysteries—and I 
wouldn’t have had it any other way.  


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

Saturday, September 29, 2018

Missing (Day 619)


but    used to love    and 
now    lay empty 
on hard sand  useless  
a nautilus shell
abandoned by the tide


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay

Friday, September 28, 2018

Take off your shoes (Day 618)



Take off your shoes
Notice tiny paw prints
   in fresh mounds of snow
Sing a forgotten song
   joyously  amidst the drifting 
   silence
Listen to cool streams 
   of words: smooth pebbles 
   carried toward the sea


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ben Seidelman/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Thursday, September 27, 2018

They want to tell (Day 617)


realize 
how clearly     hear
how they want 
to tell     a story  
  about their sorrow 
    and the hardships 
they faced  feeling 
through albums 
  myriad moments  
    complicated movements  
they flew all that way  
  simply to cherish a type 
of sadness     
a beautiful dance  simple  
straightforward 
as the moon
are      willing to stay up 
until dawn  expressive 
  hands gesturing 
    full-out 
to convey a meaning 
which     may be willing 
  to acknowledge  
    because it is true


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: US Library of Congress

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Some Years (Day 616)

Some years   lush autumn 
plunges into winter   rattling 
like a hollow chest
yet longing for succor from 
roseate spring’s titillating 
poetry   tumbling streams of 
language and cavorting syntax
drawn to the earthy fragrance 
of life-affirming decay 
for months the vague sour
drench and crunch 
coat a drab wooly world 
approaching   unknowingly   
a seasonal crossroads 
and thirsting for light   until 
winter   finally satiated   seceeds



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Gwen and James Anderson 
Signposts at crossroads, Slap o' The Gask  
CC BY-SA 2.0

Tuesday, September 25, 2018

The pea-green coat (Day 615)

From a doorway, he watches, neither thinking nor without thought, as she moves quietly, unobtrusively, almost invisibly, through a midday crowd, pocketbook clutched in the crook of her left elbow, right hand free to carry the day’s purchases. Hanging limply from her sharp shoulders, the hem of her pea-green coat sways disspiritedly around her knees, covering a dress he knows will be faded, the fabric clean, soap-scented, but fragile from years of washing. She does not look up, never makes eye contact unless speaking directly to a merchant or a rare acquaintance. In an absent-minded motion, reminiscent of the ubiquitous row of rosary-sayers at the churches of his youth, he polishes a blushing apple, turning it over and over, his eyes following the receeding pea-green rectangle until it disappears around a corner. Then, with a sigh, he gently replaces the fruit, and turns toward his next customer.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Monday, September 24, 2018

It was not much (Day 614)


It was not much, but 
it was hours—
the intimate group of friends,
the bouquet of flowers 
   someone pressed 
      into my hands,
the elusive dress, the dinner, 
the rings we could not afford,
   but bought anyway,
that blurred, cloudy day, 
   when the sun broke through, 
and we promised 
   what we believed 
      was possible.
Looking back, the truth 
   is clear:
It was not much, but,
for a fleeting moment,
it was ours.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Sunday, September 23, 2018

News Break (Day 613)

I did
but now 
I don’t

I used to
but I can’t

I still want to
but I won’t

I do my best
(these days: 
 not much)

Which means 
I’m out
of touch



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six


Image: Men and a woman reading headlines posted 
in street-corner  window of Brockton Enterprise 
newspaper office on Christmas Eve, Brockton, Mass.
Jack Delano/Picryl

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Sunset Tanka (Day 612)

Sublime coral sky
Darkness obscures gentle waves
Voices fall silent

Tasting salt heightens sweetness
Only peacefulness remains

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Friday, September 21, 2018

How Can I Give (Day 611)


How can I give you 
a tree—a fog-enfolded sequoia, 
or a sap-spitting sycamore 
   with dinner-plate leaves—
when you have never swooned 
   over the honeyed scent of freesias, 
   blooming in a sun-drenched courtyard? 
How can I give you 
that courtyard, 
that gathering of nodding, blue-and-yellow 
trumpets, when you have never 
spread your blanket on a patch of ground 
   redolent of hot pine resin 
   and sun-baked dust? 
How can I give to you the unknowable
—the kiss of minnows at your toes?
—the Red Riding Hood flash of a cardinal 
   against bare November woods?
—the soft, secret joy of a heart 
    that would always have been yours? 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, September 20, 2018

Lady at the Bar (Day 610)

she finds fault
when she wants what’s not 
there   impossible to grasp
to understand   
and now   watch   
how interesting   the way 
her hand hovers 
for a moment 
too long   before she decides
to withdraw the favor


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Hearing Him (Day 609)

I like hearing him 
   when he isn’t talking 
when I can hear him 
   thinking 
   of new distractions 
   and glistening 
   attractions
to lure our attention 
   far from the drama 
   we all crave
I like listening 
   to the wheels 
   as they turn, slowly, 
methodically grinding out 
the ineffable nonsense
  of the day. 




(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image from photo provided by US DoD 

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Always Carry a Notebook (Day 608)



A poem   like a wasp
   appears   circles crisply
three times   hovers briefly  
   to see if I have anything 
interesting to offer   

If I flail   pen in hand  
   it may remain   humming 
and buzzing in my ear  
   but   met with indifference
it will disappear in a flash



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Karen Kincy/Pixabay

Monday, September 17, 2018

Hygge Haiku (Day 607)

Steam ribbons waver
Tiny flowers dance and bloom 
Amber-bound meadow

Windows laced with frost
Bird tracks quilt new-fallen snow
Woolen hours unwind


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Hannah Six

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Saturday, September 15, 2018

What She Remembers (Day 605)


She remembers him, sleek, 
elegant in black, on a night in June 
that shimmered like a mirage—
a night when he glanced up, over 
a room bubbling with guests—and 
saw her.
She remembers surprise and delight 
illuminating his black-coffee eyes, 
and the song the orchestra was playing 
as he wound his way across the dance floor,
through dozens of swaying couples,
  to say hello, 
  to say he enjoyed her latest,
  to say she was dazzling,
  to say he knew that, later, she would 
      want to ask his thoughts on...
She remembers him, that night, smiling, 
arrogant, pompous,
remembers telling him she didn’t care 
what he thought, 
remembers the silence as she walked away 
with (she hoped) a haughty tilt to her chin, 
   feeling his gaze trickle down her back,
   feeling him follow when she stepped 
      outside into a music-tinged night
   feeling him walk up behind her and stop, 
      only a foot away, where she could hear 
      the catch in his breath 
before he whispered her name, 
before he said what she remembers 
to this day...


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Emilio Labrador/Flickr (CC BY-2.0)

Friday, September 14, 2018

Spaces Between (Day 604)

Elastic sky, rain-stretched
clouds drawn groundward, 
air roaring, spaces between 
drops fewer and smaller,   
until we, after only a few yards,   
are soaking wet and shivering,   
no longer running for shelter—   
what would be the point? 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Nicolas Vigier/Flickr

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Each blade of grass a story (Day 603)

Each blade of grass   a story
each paving stone   a poem
knitted of lichen & moss
punctuated by five-petaled
sky-blue flowers   so tiny 
they defy the eye of anyone 
who fails to stop & stoop 
over their miniature bower   
(only a select few ever do)   
& so   the stories & the poems 
go largely unnoticed   content 
in their role  delighting 
(mostly)   artists   & amblers  
& the patient companions 
of slow-sniffing dogs  


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

Short & Sweet (Day 602)

bearing down                on goodbye
from the south              tasting of buttered pancakes
wasn’t that the way      she always liked it
the storms fell               short & sweet
like dominoes or           like popular songs
so it seemed                   urgent & forgettable

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Elided (Day 601)

Hours like November trees   
denuded   silent   invisible 
sidewalks coated with answers
like gaudy rings 
on knobby fingers
a moth in the darkness   
I am unmentionable
my most joyous years  elided
now  quiet as a cloud   I exist 
in the passive tense   shouldn’t I 
have a name   wouldn’t I have 
etched traces of myself 
into life’s rough surface  
or maybe it is supposed to be 
enough to dwell (unnoticed) 
in the shadowy depths 
of a willow-graced stream


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six




Monday, September 10, 2018

When I want you to know (Day 600)


now   when I want you 
to know   your eyes 
slide to the right 

you are gazing 
out our window   
but not seeing
what I see 

how   when I want you
to hear   can I reach
across this room and

all those years   too many 
words   fall   silent
on your distant shores



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Porovuori/Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, September 9, 2018

Marking My Horizon (Day 599)

Now I   away   intense 
heart remembering smoldering 
   words with which we parted
and you   a floating light   jewel-like 
buoy marking my horizon 
      appearing     disappearing   
consumed by secret rifts 
  in a not-so-placid sea 
  warm as June peaches   
ripening on a sun-blessed tree 
   at the farthest edge 
       of our wilding orchard


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere