Friday, April 19, 2019

An unusual silence (Day 821)

Rain taps nervously on the window, 

reminding me of an unusual silence

another listless day, tasting of ozone 

and buttered toast, slightly burnt,

slumps toward night, breathing tepid 

promises of billowing May, heady 

with flutterings, and afternoon storms 

bending these gold-tipped trees

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Embroidery sampler (1840s), Mexico,

via Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Beside me (Day 819)

When you see me 
sitting here, the sun 
bright in my eyes 
and warm 
on my arms, 
you may think I am 
alone. But that 
chair beside me 
is not empty. 
When the world 
seems too fierce 
and burdens 
too heavy to bear, 
I offer them a seat—
and, there, they wait
patiently, for me 
to rise again.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Tanka for Day 818


Doors open to spring

All things sing and bud and bloom.

Pale blue breeze lingers.

Drifts of snow, now merely dreams.

Rising mist glows, whispers: Yes

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Monday, April 15, 2019

Dark now (Day 817)

Like thunder   the world’s 
sorrow lands on my heart   
beating me into near 
submission   but for 
a mere glimmer of light
dark now for millions 
of years   luring me toward 
a sweeter time than now
a warmer place than here

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Statue of Joan of Arc in Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral interior, Paris
taken spring 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Steven G. Johnson.
 via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Saturday, April 13, 2019

On a scale (Day 815)

with the careful measured 
movements of a thief   he places 
pretty baskets on a scale 

baskets of tiny skeletons  one by one  
birdlike and frail  piled high 
against his crumbling castle walls

woven by knotted hands too sore 
to lift a bowl to hungry lips  no matter  
seldom paid enough to eat

he weighs and counts with glee
each batch of small bleached bones 
a victory  a testament to his wasting 

sun whose hate trumps love  and there  
beneath his gaze  they grow  
stunted with despair and fail to thrive

worthless alive  he craves the click 
of little clavicles and ribs in baskets 
he can weigh against his greed

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay

Friday, April 12, 2019

Gilded Cages (Day 814)

in what gilded cages 

they live out their lot of rosé days 

and bourbon nights  

cheeks prickling  eyes glowing 

with the satisfaction 

of another’s job 

well done

how do they silence  when they 

creep between their chambers 

late at night  all those doors 

squealing with disuse

how   in portraits  

do their artists capture the lurid 

shade of self-inflated fury

or   for sympathy  do they display 

jagged edges and disappear 

again  eyes glazed 

with fear and longing  to shelter 

in those jangling cells of luxury  

drawing close their velvet drapes 

against an inner darkness 

teeming with the fervent desires 

and untested truths 

of a feverish equatorial night

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Evelyn De Morgan, The Gilded Cage (ca 1900 – 1919), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, April 11, 2019

Comfort, upended (Day 813)

fairy tale maidens are 

no more  and comfort 

has been upended  

kindness turned on its side



vertical  with only 

a small speck of compassion 

lingering  like a knife  

hovering above 

an undefiled snowfield

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: La Dame à la licorne: À mon seul désir (15th cent.),

wool and silk tapestry, via Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

Silence scattered (Day 812)

Is it enough  that
I told you
how I feel (maybe not 
how much  
not how little
nor even what  
but  at least  how)

Is it enough  that
you trampled 
and smashed the fragile 
silence  scattered 
shards of eggshell 
strewn carelessly
in your wake

Or  perhaps  you prefer 
the power 
of not knowing  
the way 
it allows you to take 
what you want  
without the sting 
of conscience you might 
feel  if  for an hour 
or two
you simply listened

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Monday, April 8, 2019

Haiku for Day 810

Darkness diminished.
Twisted vines, indifferent.
New, fragrant life burns.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Frederick Carl Frieseke, Cherry Blossoms (1913), 
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, April 7, 2019

Saturday, April 6, 2019

Southern shores (Day 808)

beyond all 

measurable time-stained 

fingers brushing 

soft slick teardrops 

from your face 

you say you

find southern shores 

nurturing  tasting 

as they do 

of salted sweetness 

creamy as jonquils 

nodding in 

spring-laced groves 

and so  you go 

in ever-smaller pieces 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: reginafloyd/Pixabay

Friday, April 5, 2019

Raising a future (Day 807)

hours crawled 

people brushed past  

raising a future

like walls around us

a labyrinth   and all 

around us 

said me too  

exclaimed we too  

into the gray 

middle distance 

of Thursday-night 

weekend  fighting back 

the Friday morning 

rising like steam 

from subway vents 

all around us 

rushing  rushing

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Chris Spielmann/US NIH

via Wikimedia Commons

Thursday, April 4, 2019

Willing Readers (Day 806)

bevy of willing readers

sprawled on a Sunday lawn

one book  one cover  each 

story a new leaf   green 

emotions center stage

drawn larger than your 

open heart  the universe

a glimmer in your eyes

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Mike Maguire/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

Wednesday, April 3, 2019

They might tempt you (Day 805)

They might tempt you 
with their glitter and shine   
their pink-frosted grins
and valentine promises 
   written with driftwood 
      in wave-washed sand

As if your strength 
   weakens them 
as if your passion 
   chills them
they might try to 
tell you you should 
   treat yourself
     bask in the sun 
         live a little   

But you have lived 
   one thousand lives   
and you despise 
   the disposable
and rather than suffer 
   another burn worshipping 
      at their altar of bronze
you offer a thin smile   
remain in repose   

Because  while they beat 
   and bruise their wings 
      against the glass    
trying to reach the light   
you prefer the shade 
   of your own mind

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Tuesday, April 2, 2019

Early spring, 8th & Vine (Day 804)

Never so delicious as gold 

rises from long days 

of gray and brown

piled amidst road grit and 

rubbish blowing around 

his ankles ruby-red 

head of spring’s first 

House Finch nesting on 

a flood-light housing over 

and over he walks the line 

of cars and the dogwoods 

about to burst into glory

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Monday, April 1, 2019

Please Touch (Day 803)

ahead in line, a shriek, a swell 

of flustered giggles  

what is it?  never one for surprises, 

you hesitate, not wanting to 

reach into this velvet-shrouded hole, 

imagining the hairy legs 

of some unintentional arachnid, 

who would obviously be tempted 

by a dusty curtained box

you find no comfort in your classmates’ 

whole, unravaged fingers,

in their laughter and high, excited voices

—no, you alone realize the danger 

of reaching blindly into blackness

consider the rattlesnake, lurking 

between boulders—the one your mother 

surprised when, as a young girl, she 

climbed a mountain with her spaniel, 

who jumped bravely forward 

to take the strike, saving her, 

saving you, who know better 

than to put your hand where you can’t see

the child next to you shuffles and sighs, 

impatient, and you also know shame, 

know courage, know you have to 

press beyond the darkness, where 

the tiny skeleton of some forsaken fledgling 

waits for soft-seeking fingertips to probe 

the tiny holes through which it saw a world 

larger even than your own

waits for you to give name to its being, 

to its unbecoming, waits for you to imagine 

velvety feathers silkening a quivering breast 

before it fell, before it gave its life 

so you can have this moment, this horror, 

this upwelling of giddy relief, 

so you can hold the elegant fragility 

of bleached bones, so you, too, can wait,

and know, 

and know, 

and you release 

the tiny creature with a shiver of regret, 

before dusting your hand off 

on a blue-jeaned leg, 

and allowing yourself to be

jostled forward again, toward the next exhibit

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay