Friday, March 22, 2019

Of pizza and poetry (Day 793)


They knew culture and cowboys, 

pizza and Paris, taciturn deer hunters, 

and voluble librarians.

Theirs was basic fare: nursery rhymes, 

quiet forests, images of renowned 

beauty, predictable and familiar.


What they missed was poetry—

rhapsodic, epic, true, life-saving

—replete with nutrient-dense language, 

packaged in yellowed pages 

and flaking paperback covers, with 

the lethal heft of a Norton anthology.


As their youth subsided, they persisted, 

choosing only each other, embracing 

the silence, forsaking the gilded, 

sirenic allure of the tawdry 

and the social. For years, 

under a deluge of outside influences, 

it seemed they hardly talked at all, 

and ceased to expect the unexpected. 


Until that Tuesday morning, bright 

and crisp as green apples, when they 

awoke to find their own 

long-cherished myth had begun 

to transform the mundane.

All around them, fountains flowed, 

and forests chimed like bells.


Barely breathing, they allowed 

themselves to open the cover, 

allowed the book to fall open, but 

it was only when they sank with relief 

into the everlasting depths 

of those transparent pages, 

that even the taciturn deer hunters 

began to speak in verse.



(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Travel Tanka (Day 791)

Below, blue snow clouds
Folded paper mountains sigh
Sun glints on silver

We settle back into sleep
Evening arrives twice today 


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Room between them (Day 790)

Reluctantly early, he 
glanced around the 
room to see 
if anyone had 
noticed he’d arrived.

She had, and
turned away, pale
hand firmly gripping 
the fragile stem 
of her glass. 
There was no
place to hide.

The room between 
them quivered and 
condensed until, unable 
to converse in 
those watery depths, 
everyone grew quiet. 

Are you happy?  
Outside, a bank 
of wildflowers overlooked 
an expanse of 
turquoise sea ablaze 
with sunlight. Have 
you even tried? 

The door latched 
neatly into place 
with a metallic 
click, and wine 
babbled into glass.
Gradually, one voice 
joined another, countering 
the ebbing tide.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Monday, March 18, 2019

Just Stay (Day 789)

Honeylit pond leaf-feathered 

falling music daisy padded lawns 

lingering spring murmuring in 

emerald-paved pavillions palm 

fronds whistling cooled golden 

smiles touched by decades passing 

still before your eyes a eucalyptus 

path beneath vermillion clouds 

and windchimes tuned to those old 

songs see now where you belong 

salt-tinged this birthright sprawled 

beneath your buckling knees a dream 

broad brush-stroked hours inspire 

swathes of fog-veiled tears and 

leaving feels like coming home 

just yesterday this way just stay


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six


Sunday, March 17, 2019

Boy with a stick (Day 788)

He swings 
at a tree, beating 
back the forest 
with a stick

dark eyes 
flashing, battling 
dragons, or, perhaps, 
his father

blow after blow,
the tree endures
what his enemy
could not

until, defeated 
by acceptance, 
he drops his weapon,  
slumps homeward.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: West Woods, Antietam Battlefield

Saturday, March 16, 2019

Spring Tanka (Day 787)

Pollen gilds the breeze

Silently, pink petals fall—

Drifting, candied snow

 

Distant peaks cloaked in pure white

Still lost in dreams of winter


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Original photo: US BLM

Friday, March 15, 2019

The sharp edge of goodbye (Day 786)

He was not the first 

to leave, nor will he be 

the last, but you 

are past the point 

of caring, of opening 

your door when you hear 

his footsteps on your walk, 

of answering your telephone 

when he is lonely and just 

wants to talk or cry, 

of melting when he shares

his secret smile—the one 

that promises to grant 

your every wish. He may not 

have been the first to leave, 

but you are certain, now, 

are past the point 

of caring, of lingering on 

the sharp edge of goodbye.


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six


Thursday, March 14, 2019

Each a foreign country (Day 785)

each a foreign country 

murmurring & marveling 

in love with its own 

impatient sighs still folding

them in two & two again


sweet soft voices rise & fall 

lure like joy this tumbling 

to velvet ground this bed 

of bluebells softening 

familiar rose-clothed tables


tarnished & decorous 

meandering beside the blue 

beyond still sheltered corners 

through high-plains winds 

endless & deep as a first kiss 


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Colin/Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0)


Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

We have inherited (Day 783)



we have inherited 


sublime coral clouds   threads 

of red and gold   casually discarded   

  

this desert


burning ocean   collapsed   inert 

abiding in dust-laden darkness     


is ours to mine


rasping furred skin   converging 

with concealed succulence


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Monday, March 11, 2019

First steps (Day 782)


Know the mud   slippery and cold 

between your toes   rolling toward 

the hard shore   reaching out 

to meet you   to welcome you home

to receive the pale chalk of your bones 

when   at last   you find yourself sliding 

gently back   the murky water closing 

fast and sure over your head   and 

know that the earth will remember 

where you walked  will cherish 

the traces you left behind   

the small round stones kicked aside 

or stacked just so   

the flowers carefully chosen and 

planted where   every morning   the sun 

might kiss them tenderly and say 

I am so happy that you are here at last


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel


Sunday, March 10, 2019

In June Accents (Day 781)

March, in June accents. 
Softly, faded leaves part 
to spears of rising green. 
Soon, the forest’s papery 
floor will be scattered 
with clusters of crocuses, 
yellow, white, and violet. 
Soon, the last pillows 
of snow will disappear, 
and branches, now bare, 
will recline, draped in 
their late-April finery.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Saturday, March 9, 2019

Those who do not remember (Day 780)

Those who do not remember the past 
are condemned to repeat it. —George Santayana

When the homes of dissenting 
professors are mapped, and 
Victor Hugo dreams of an arrow 
of seven geese pointing toward 
the tilted crescent barely discernible 
in the sky above Nanterre, 
we will wish we had said No.

When, in the wreckage of time, 
beneath a smoke-clotted film 
of unbalanced light, enough 
human life is spilled into French 
fields (where, years later, 
expatriot gentians begin to grow),
we will wish we had said No.

When cities are scoured by wind, 
slicing through concrete layers, 
to the bone echoes of train-platform 
scenes invisible to all but silent 
security cameras and roaming 
packs of dumpster-fed dogs,
we will wish we had said No.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: George Luks, Verdun, France (ca. 1915), 
watercolor on paper, via Wikimedia Commons

Friday, March 8, 2019

On waking from an afternoon nap (Day 779)

Falling upward   toward a glaze 

   of light rippling on the surface

rush of silence  vast  wind in my ears

   shhh   can you hear their whispers 

   through the walls    vague music 

   in the sweep of water through the pipes

   someone is dancing  release the wheel

limbs flailing   inefficient strokes 

   of an inexperienced swimmer   

shimmering disc now nearer  brighter  

distorted sound a song of Sunday 

   morning bells drawing me   

   heart first   back arched   into 

a searing burst of lucid afternoon

and soon I breathe

and soon I see

and the whispers are receding

and the music is silenced with a touch



(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere


Thursday, March 7, 2019

That Heat (Day 778)


So sweet, that heat

you wish would go away

and yet it stays

those dog days 

you sprawl

disgusted with it all

but right now

it’s fresh and new

the way it was with you

so sweet, that heat

you wish would go away

bittersweet, the way 

you leave  

and yet it stays


(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Florine Stettheimer, Heat (1919), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons