Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Rhumba (Day 664)

man dances  rhumba 

hand on the waist

of an invisible partner 

she has not been easy 

to lead  relentless birdlike 

interest quick and sharp 

turning and twisting in his 

arms  glancing at her own 

feet to assure herself 

she will not be carried 

away  working furiously 

at the tragic melange  

she enjoys  never being 

asked to dance  with him 

or any man  he finds it funny  

he’d believed she could  

apparently  he was wrong

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Vernon and Irene Castle, 

by Frances Benjamin Johnston

Monday, November 12, 2018

Skeins (Day 663)

We wound the days 
in careful skeins, to save 
in a secret corner.
I knit them now, one by one, 
reforming each pine-tinged 
memory, dimmed by dust 
and age, windtossed, 
confused pages gleaned 
from disembodied books.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Sunday, November 11, 2018

New Wishes (Day 662)

Beneath a pillow of disenchantment, 

she placed her box of fine, bespoke jewels.

 Replacing lost hopes and dreams can be 

hard work—new wishes only come at a cost.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Michelle Jo (CC BY 3.0)

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Redwood Days (Day 661)

In a soporific fog  we slipped 

between the needles  blue 

and glazed  dripping january rain  

softly underfoot   the beds of fallen 

soldiers  gold and dead  in passageways 

of mountain kings we tread forbidden 

spring-green fields  the shining trophy 

was the chase  end-of-day faces 

turned toward a quivering sky  

our metronome of ragged breath 

marked each timeless tensile hour

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Friday, November 9, 2018

Sentinels (Day 660)

gliding swans, serene sentinels 

in your sea of fallen stars—

how quiet you are, slipping 

among the shimmering fins and 

tails of our ungranted wishes

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Thursday, November 8, 2018

Nostalgic Sway (Day 659)

Slow sway swings a band
Lovers fall back, hands embraced
Pale wood flows like sand

Emerging poetry breathes
Faint mist peels back clouds of years

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: detail of a photo 
by Liza/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

Could it be (Day 658)

Could it be that 

there’s really nothing 

left to say?

Maybe the 

day  night  year  term 

has been going on

far too long.

Maybe I’ve run out 

of words, and will 

never again be able 

to write a poem 

or a story. (Well,

that’s not likely.)

Maybe I stayed up 

too late, lights ablaze, 

(re)finishing that book 

I return to for comfort 

when the world 

feels frightening 

or ugly. Or both. 

Maybe He started pecking 

away at his keyboard 

early. Today, 

he got the worm. Someday 

soon, the worms will win.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Not enough (to hope) [Day 657]

I’m sorry, but it’s not enough 
to hope, to sink down in despair 
and watch the falling rain. 
It’s not enough to talk 
about the changes we want now,
and expect someone, somehow
to make them for us. Enough
is a slippery slope, a one-lane road 
from light-drenched peaks to forests, 
dark and cool, treacherously banked 
around snaking curves. Enough 
is watchful, mindful, careful, thankful 
for what shines. It’s willing to work 
for what makes life worth living, 
to fight lazy ambivalence and 
battle the cruel folly of ignorance. 
No, I’m sorry, but hope will never 
be enough. A freedom like ours 
commands us to embrace the words 
inscribed on parchment, bronze, 
and stone—with generous hearts, 
we live; we die, alone.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Patrick Gillespie/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Monday, November 5, 2018

The Present (Day 656)

Looking up

at golden leaves

set in a silver sky,  

I nearly missed

the exquisiteness

of the present

waiting patiently 

at my feet.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Sunday, November 4, 2018

It Matters Now (Day 655)

Picture this: 
A page is turning.
Are we safe?
Or are we burning?

Every voice,
raised up, decides
if our democracy
lives or dies.

Staying home,
from fear or sorrow,
dooms us 
to more today, tomorrow.

He and His have us
by the throat.
It matters now:
Please, vote!
Please, vote

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Saturday, November 3, 2018

A Disappearance (Day 654)

Not knowing which way was up, she turned left and buzzed down the sapphire highway in a neon green Beetle. The air was cool. Not quite summer yet, but who could forget that funny little twist in the wind like a sliver of lemon peel alongside a demitasse of snappy, black espresso? This may sound funny, but she wished fervently for the rains and fog of February as she drove, something to stave off the yearning to leave, to go...somewhere. Life’s just not fair. She thought, for the millionth time, about a boy she knew in school, who just up-and-disappeared. Without a word. Day after day, his blue eyes warmed the side of her neck and, maybe once or twice, his jacket warmed her shoulders. Then, one Tuesday morning, his chair had been empty. He wasn’t there the next day, or the next, and no one seemed to care enough to find out where he went. After a while, the gossip died down, and life went on as usual. The only evidence he’d existed at all: a vague sense of coolness that lay gently against her right cheek, and the sleek leather jacket she took to wearing when the temperature dipped at night.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Max Andrey/Pexels

Friday, November 2, 2018

The yes-or-no of it (Day 653)

It’s not the yes-or-no of it

The just-not-letting-go of it

The utter crying shame of it 

   is somewhere in between

It’s not the right or wrong of it

The that-one-can’t-belong of it

We shouldn’t have to fight for it

   in our democracy

He’s a bastard  she’s a bitch

Those dirty poor  these filthy rich

Opposing views entrenched in rage

This is Real Life  not some soundstage

It’s not the red or blue of it

The them/us/me/or you of it

Our hearts do know the truth of it

We’re just not listening

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six

Image: Cygne attaquĆ© par un chien (1745), Jean-Baptiste Oudry, oil on canvas

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Compromise (Day 652)

What I want:

An end to this.*

A goodnight kiss.

A big bowl of 

   cannoli dip.

A three-month,

   solo Paris trip.

What I’ll get:

A few late nights.

More time to write.

A spicy, homemade,

   vegan meal.

A coffeeshop with

   urbane appeal.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Jon Luty/PublicDomainPictures

*For the curious: By “this” I mean the Trump administration and the GOP war against US democracy.