Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Silver Veneer (Day 637)

the sky, a flaking silver veneer
opalescent clouds appear to melt
a journey wakes, arises

the wise, golden moon glides higher
in a strange breeze, tiny flowers swing 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: NPS Denali/Katie Thoresen (CC BY 2.0)

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Big-game trophies (Day 636)

Swept along in the current   surrounded 
by brilliant men   big-game 
trophies on the club’s oak paneled walls   
your life a congenial mixture 
of grief and bonhomie   
of the trivial and the tragic
it has never been easy   
then again you always expected 
you would enjoy the company in Hell   
More interesting you said   so there’s that


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sagamore Hill, USNPS

Monday, October 15, 2018

Consolation (Day 635)

I don’t know how to tell you 
but this truth existed 
all along:

like that generous limb
extended   petals cupped around 
their precious golden offering

and that damp unyielding sand
beneath a tent that swayed 
like trees 

that night we braved a sea of wind 
which set the stars to spinning 
like the tilted sky was 
swimming with drunken fireflies  

remember
that gentle song 
your heart sings when you allow 
yourself to live  
to give 
and to receive
this consolation   
this reprieve


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Picryl

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Vinland Song (Day 634)

where blue ice cleaves 
the sea she waits and I
the one who chose 
might ever be departed 

no one else must 
know our blood spilled 
rose-red on unmarred snow 

we vowed and yet 
so far from home 
am I in unmarked lands 
so unprepared 
to hand my life away 

just now    the fire 
sings a lullabye 
and I draw near 
to see her face 
within the flames

the dream I seek will come 
tonight same as it always does

the sun has risen and 
she waits for me 
with hands outstretched 
toward an endless sea

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Russell Wills

Saturday, October 13, 2018

Writing on you (Day 633)


Today, I am writing on you, 
my pen’s nib pillowing into 
your soft skin, a tiny puddle 
of ink, hardly more than a speck, 
dots the hollow of your throat, 
where my thumb fits, just so, 
the skin soft and tender, 
anticipating my touch. 
My line curves from the corner 
of your eye, to the side 
of your mouth that quirks up 
just before you smile. 
Across the firm expanse of your 
back, my signature, a spider's 
web, intertwined with leaves and 
vines, the faintest scar. 
Then, where a flower might bloom, 
allow my pen to linger, and slowly, 
carefully add your name to mine.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Prehistoric hand stencils at the Cuevas 
de las Manos upon Río Pinturas, near the town of 
Perito Moreno in Santa Cruz Province, Argentina.
Mariano (CC BY-SA 3.0)/Wikimedia Commons

Friday, October 12, 2018

I am bare branches (Day 632)


I am bare branches, streaked with moss 
and damp-darkened, north-facing shadows.
I am that secret place—there, all the way up 
—where a bird's nest rested securely through 
a summer’s worth of thunderstorms, and 
where, now, only a few strands of yellowing 
weeds waver in the wind.
I am a shade-strewn evening porch, overlooking 
an emerald expanse of tender grass, 
soon to be blanketed by a crystal sheet of ice 
or the white-hot kiss of winter's first snow.
I am the unwritten poem, rising, subsiding, 
always just out of sight, known but unrecognizable, 
a season of shifting light and midnight frost, 
of dreams lost to the joy of waking, and, this time, 
I am taking my own sweet time.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Hernán Piñera/Flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Thursday, October 11, 2018

When you think of me (Day 631)


So, when you think of me,

am I sleeping? 

Am I awake, eyes pressed 

against the darkness,

trying to see into tomorrow?

When you think of me, 

am I alone? Is it a sad, 

spinsterish solitude? 

Or maybe my aloneness is 

tinged with the coolness 

of the crone? Am I content? 

Or do I fret and suffer 

in your thoughts? Do I 

cry or laugh? Shuffle or stride?

And then again, I wonder, 

and perhaps you wonder too, 

whether, you really ought to 

think of me at all.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six


Image: Looking Out the Window (1908),

by Peter Vilhelm Ilsted via Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Face Forward (Day 630)


underside of day
face forward 
only way to find the road 
ahead   illuminated 
by taillights and 
(sometimes) by stars 
eyes wide open   hands on 
the wheel   driving through 
cloudbanks of doubt 
and the darkest wanderings
of a quiet mind   no map 
to guide you   no map can 
guide you   ahead: is that
a bridge or a sigh? 
either will carry you 
where you are headed   
where you are going   
where you need to be


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Monday, October 8, 2018

...so resilient (Day 628)


Waving goodbye 
to those days at the beach
to your first morning of summer vacation
to the faintly-spicy air of impending autumn
and the scent of freshly opened crayons 
   in that daffodil-papered kitchen. 
The final box stowed.
The last turn of that particular key
   in that tricky lock.
You’ll have your own room!
You’ll get to make new friends!
You will have so much exploring to do!
Looking back through the rear window,
you sigh, and, protectively, decide not to tell 
them they’re not fooling you. After all: 
Resilience is a dish best served cold. 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Quintin Gellar/Pexels

Sunday, October 7, 2018

A Single Day (Day 627)


A.M.
Rain.
Steady.
The sky, that
deep, sighing gray.
Remembering when
weather made no difference,
when our lives shone like late June.
Lightbulb sun, liquid energy.
Plotting my hours: Dickensian days,
distracting myself from that ticking clock,
the calendar, devoid of the plans we’d made.
Silver lining—my novel is growing like weeds.

P.M.
Dusk.
Welcome
as a bath,
a wool blanket,
in which I can hide.
My day? Quiet. And yours?
It’s the small talk I miss most.
And the laughter. Serious now,
arrested by my own reflection.
Who’s this woman? Does she never sparkle?
So, I’m sending you a smile—the one I wore 
when we first met—lest my frozen lips forget how. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Frances Benjamin Johnston

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Above us (Day 626)

Above us   thunder
though the sky 
is clear and blue 
as a robin’s egg  
I bury my head  
waves wash 
over me and 
below us   
only silence
but when you open 
your eyes   you are 
surprised to find
I am no longer there

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Karen Blaha/Flickr
(CC BY-SA 2.0)

Friday, October 5, 2018

Leopard (Day 625)

Leopard peels back his mask and reveals prints deeper than skin. To prove his point, he pierces the base of your thumb with a finely sharpened claw. When a garnet cabochon of blood appears, you realize you are no longer sleeping. In keeping with the evening’s festive theme, a fresh bottle appears, as if by magic. Your companion, disinclined to waste, quickly drains his glass down to the dregs, and you notice the sommelier’s tragic mouth tighten with distaste. He is watching as a droplet of merlot wends its way down the leopard’s left fang, which extends beyond the boundaries of his glossy onyx lips. Apologetically, you smile and offer a slight shrug, as if to acknowledge the futility of trying to teach that old cat new tricks.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: IanZA/Pixabay

Thursday, October 4, 2018

Unaccustomed to light (Day 624)

We were what I didn’t realize, and I had fallen back to sleep. Later in the morning, men would glow greenly beneath canopies of leaves, readying their saws for the day’s work. Heedless of the kindness being showered upon them. Is it true that love is merely a collection of small fears? Like golden eyes, wisdom peered and sap rained down through the branches. It was sap, wasn’t it? Giggling late into the night, safe in our sheltered lair, we cried and planned and feasted on olives, while pages of dusty butterfly wings fluttered on a metallic breeze. And then a rainy morning smelling of vinyl. And then the next day, when we, unaccustomed to light, were jarred awake by silence and a cacophonous riot of unfiltered sun. 


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ulrich Scharwachter/Pexels

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

In my pocket (Day 623)

I’ve got you 
in my pocket   your lips 
spit-shiny   red 
and pursed   whispering 
lies and hate-laced words 
into the warm crease 
of my thigh

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

Poetry Disturbs (Day 622)

poetry disturbs 
gelatinous golden 
midnight songs  sweet 
poison  concentrated  
surging liquid words


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: AgnosticPreachersKid/Wikimedia Commons 
(CC BY-SA 3.0)

Monday, October 1, 2018

Not My Entertainment (Day 621)


Your nightmare is not 
    my entertainment
your thirst is not quenched 
    by my need 
       to know
and my judgment does
   not feed your children
when you reach out 
   in supplication
   in sorrow 
   in anger 
to ask  grab  take 
what you must have 
I am not deprived 
of my shelter  my dinner  my sense
   of futility
and you never see me 
    reaching  
       to drag you 
          from that shrieking deluge 
to offer you 
my dinner  my bed  my heart
   cracks and breaks 
      like the ground beneath your feet
but that 
neither helps nor comforts
   you   need
what I have 
   here is a complex puzzle 
      to which every answer 
      is both
      right and wrong
and the distance between us 
is brief 
    as the final song 
       of summer’s last cricket




Dedicated to all victims of the earthquake and tsunami that 
struck the island of Sulawesi, in Indonesia, on Friday, Sept. 28, 2018.


(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Beach near Palu, on Sulawesi in Indonesia 
(Trollderella/Wikimedia Commons CC BY-SA 3.0)