Sunday, March 31, 2019

Something I think of (Day 802)

mist of roses   languid waterfalls

nostalgia  trickling  tumbling 

into fathomless teal pools 

choosing  not  choosing 

what to  not to  do  

something I think of you  

when I choose 

my seven reticent lines 

from that once-generous stretch

of time known as ours  

but perhaps more appropriately 

described as: then

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Roses of Heliogabalus (1888),

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Saturday, March 30, 2019

The Source (Day 801)

we raced from rushing olive waves   toes crabbed 
   and cold-pinkened in salt-stiff sand
come on  it will be fun   the boy and his father 
   are out back   he is shouting   angrily 
   demanding the ball
each pass erased evidence of previous visitors 
   so that   looking out to sea   we could imagine 
   we were the only ones ever to have tested its edge
why do we venture so far from the roiling 
   source and solace
why do we persist in believing it will   someday
   welcome us home

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: US BLM

Friday, March 29, 2019

Between (Day 800)

between morning and tonight

      or lie awake and worry

   what is there to do

   the sky a pearl

trees gather wind   I see

and from my bed

   framed by the window

   stirs the dull afternoon

      but go to sleep

about the empty hours

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: John Singer Sargeant, The sketchers (1914), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia

Thursday, March 28, 2019

Waiting for the gardener (Day 799)

Waiting for the gardener, amidst tangles 

of weeds, unpruned vines, ivy 

invading my yard, green interweaving gray 

fence posts into a rugged raft.

The gardener will prune and mow, tidy 

and sculpt, methodically unravelling 

knotted brambles, artfully arranging 

this muddled acre. Still, 

as he arrives at the weathered gate, 

I hesitate, certain that, if they could 

speak, my wilding masses would say:

We prefer nature’s order to your chaos.

But, while the birds (and I) 

would ardently agree, how my neighbors 

would react is hardly a mystery. 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Subsistence (Day 798)

restructure howls allowing wooden floors 

bemused words before laughter made indoors

their longer sense in frowning dew responds 

acknowledging how coldly troubling fronds 

pale underwater sounds yet yielding rose

false mortals pasture into centering bowls 

allowing decisive rules soft stunning full

an utter birdcage past pale twilights pull

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Camille Pissarro, Orchard in Bloom, Louveciennes (1872), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, March 26, 2019

Another way through (Day 797)

More than one mountain, there is
more than one pass,
sometimes buried in everlasting snow,
sometimes glowing with all the fires
of sunset, there is
always another way through,
from blue-black cedared ravines,
a desert, scoured smooth, descends,
where orchards bear promise 
of new beginnings, where, before 
snowmelt subsides, vineyards blush 
to think of autumn’s heady wine.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Picryl

Monday, March 25, 2019

The Noisemaker (Day 796)

Is it cannon fire? The building shakes!
Cat disappears, dog shrinks and quakes.
No war machine, no grown-man’s toy;
It’s the upstairs neighbors’ little boy.

That angel’s face! Those demon screams
greet us each dawn, disturb our dreams.
He stomps, he slams, he brings them joy,
The upstairs neighbors’ little boy.

What can they do, but apologize?
What can we do, but roll our eyes
Toward the trembling ceiling, 
     and nerve-shattering noise
Of the upstairs neighbors’ little boy.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PublicDomainPictures

Sunday, March 24, 2019

An ill-considered risk (Day 795)

In a frenzy of beating wings, they arrive, 
alight on an outstretched finger, wary, 
ready to rise again, to seek better shelter 
from the storm than this scattered mind, 
this voice, rough from shouting into the wind. 
With feigned indifference, I unlock my doors 
and open every window, to show I understand, 
to allow for their safe flight, should they 
decide this was an ill-considered risk.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

Saturday, March 23, 2019

Saturday Matinée (Day 794)

on the screen, a standard cowboy

the quiet type, a man apart

still waters run deep, her mama said

but those depths can drown your heart


aisle seat, popcorn and soda, 

hand to mouth, of its own accord

white-hot August, cold dark theater,

the only vacation she could afford

far from these bleak, baked city streets:

windscrubbed plains and starswept nights

no memos to type, no bus to catch—

just room to breathe, villains to fight


of course she knows this is just fiction

frontier life was unforgiving

but in this quiet cowboy’s arms

life would somehow feel worth living

so she surrenders, flaws and all,

and the dream sustains when weekdays crawl

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

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)