Poem 91: Sanctuary

Sanctuary

praying 

        ferns 

sweep the darkness 

from ancient 

        pagan idols'

lichen-clad feet

courtly 

        bowing 

            deeply

tasting the lurid 

        honey

of diluvian decay

  re/

  in/

      spiring 

their fog-enfolded 

         sanctuary

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem 90: Tumbling

sweet, the tumbling

sliding into dreams unbroken

vast, opaque, the snowfall

words unspoken

glanced at sideways 

or altogether disregarded

silent, then 

so low, the hard ground 

wide open, clover 

sweet green apronfuls

a gentle place 

to land, unbroken, and 

a place to rest

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem 89: Puzzling

absurd 

woman impatient

squinting puzzling 

over the raving 

fluorescent summer 

each supple gripping 

lover treated to 

a silver smile and 

silent moving pause

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

No. 88

crazed with night 

brilliant pain 

daughter 

seaside

the fight quickens 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem 87: Colors the Clouds Are

all the colors the clouds are

muted watercolor washes 

easing memories into place

to a time before knowing,

wanting, having,

and losing an inch here 

and there, but for the grace

of silver slipping and 

pooling in puddles 

in the sky, reflecting

all the colors the clouds are

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem 86: Lark's Lullaby

The lark made his lullaby
Of rippling conversation,
Wrapping the rumors
In a sparkling scale.

Dreaming of thunderheads

Over vast painted deserts,

He tried out the tune

From atop a cattail.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Cattails Beside Pond, by David Wagner

Poem 85: Upstart

Twisted, like softly-plied 

Wool in your fingers,

The points of your needles

Find all the right loops--

Twisted, and wrapped, and

Pulled through and knotted,

Then folded, forgotten, in

A cupboard to which you've

Long since lost the key.

Resting in darkness, with

Others who kept you 

Warm, no harm done, no

Storm damage

From tempests that once

Rose like fury between us,

Erupting in downpours

Of unspoken words.

But what seemed safe,

Now is not, and my rest is

The refuge of disused and

Misplaced loves, faces forgotten, 

Our voices unknown.

You save face, we trail 

Into the forest, and comfort 

Each other with tales

Of our fortune and 

Harrowing escapes

From your upstart heart.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #83: Tender Hearts

Sometimes, the blue sky

Is more heartbreaking 

Than rain. Clouds are 

More forgiving to 

Tender hearts that 

Burn in the midday sun.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #82: Off the Highway

Off the Highway

Sad old rusty truck 

drops off the highway,

Right turn onto smooth blacktop

Smelling of tar,

In every direction waves of grass

Ripple in the wind,

Clouds of dust, circling hawk,

Silver-faced black dog barks 

From a porch,

Fierce heat, screen doors,

Bleached laundry on the lines,

Sawdust floors, baseball games

Where lights are dimmed, slightly,

By thick clouds of flying insects,

Pie and coffee at the Kountry Kettle,

Settle the bill, crickets sing,

Right turn off the smooth, 

Blacktop road, smelling of tar.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #80: The Brick Path

The Brick Path

Is there a right way for a sweet, yellow rose to unfurl and bask gratefully under a gentle June sun?

Is there a right way for the clouds to part, while the world sleeps, setting the garden aglow with moonlight?

Is there a right was for a loyal maple, much climbed and often read under, to release its golden leaves into a bright autumn breeze?

Is there a right way for the coast to beckon to incoming swells, luring them toward an inevitable, tumbling, raucous embrace?

Is there a right way to open the gate, walk down the carefully-swept brick path to the shady road, and open our green mailbox, hoping for a letter from you?

Is there a right way, then, to sigh as I withdraw my empty hand, glancing right and left to see if a neighbor has noticed my shameful solitude?

I turn, walk back up the path, and close the gate behind me.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Entrance to the Garden Gate by T.E. Butler

Poem #79: The Picture

Beginning with the promises,

Dreadfully calm,

He yawned, shifted,

Shot his cuffs, eagerly

Expecting refreshments,

Pleased to join the picture.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #78: Only Today

Only yesterday, I dragged my

Fingers through your thick, gold hair.

Only last week, I drank the last

Sip of wine from your forgotten glass.

Only last month, I stopped wearing

The bracelet you gave me on our seventh date.

Only last year, I asked to sit next to

The man with the kindest eyes I'd ever seen.

Only today, did you kiss me and 

Close the door behind you with a soft click.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo source: www.public-domain-image.com

Poem #77: Crossings

Crossings

The best surprise, 

I think, has always 

been a blanket of fireflies 

over a cornfield 

on a June evening,

blinking...blinking...

delighting the eye 

and igniting a sweet

nostalgia for a moment 

that hasn't yet passed--

a moment that finds me 

thinking, dreaming of 

the windswept prairies

my grandmother knew

and loved, the same 

rolling grasslands, 

the same vast, 

blue heaven, 

the same shipwreck 

of mountains

floating in a sea of gold 

that I traverse--back 

the way they came--to

the place that remembers 

the weight of my step, 

the curve of my hip, 

the gentle kiss

of my fingertips. 

She reaches out, 

and draws me in 

to the blinding glare 

of sun on marble, 

where I can breathe 

in dignity, and 

rest a while 

on her aged breast, 

dazzled, sightless, 

blinking...blinking...

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Spearfish Canyon, South Dakota

Photo: USDA

Poem #76: Rescue

Rescue

he breathed the 

usual hundred times 

drowning among the 

languid tulips 

lost in a splash

of concerned smiles 

and desperate 

clichés the 

cost of rescue 

a wink and 

a hesitant closeness 

deepening 

into a slippery trust

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Sunset Beach, Cape May, NJ

Poem #75: Each

Each 

You splinter the night, enter 

and unravel my dreams, 

a long red thread. 

Panting, I wake, mired 

in my bed, pushing the fright 

out of my eyes and blinking at 

the slanting moonlight slipping 

through the shades 

of you, a midnight-blue reverie 

shrouded in 

a damp fog of desire and 

a firestorm of regrets, each 

wrapped in bright, clear silver, 

each a June day, 

each a November evening.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #74: Peony

Voluptuously

Peony drops her petals

Rare gems for the wind

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #73: Frames

Frames

Those are 

my grandfather's 

glasses

Black frames, 

square, with yellowed

lenses

The style 

you see in old 

movies

Somehow when 

I was young 

they didn't 

seem retro

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #72: After Evening

After Evening

On this perfumed 

night, frogs chirp, 

in place of cricket song.

No fireflies, but slender 

yellow columbine 

hovers and trembles 

in the dying blue light; 

and tweed-hued warblers 

seek the rennet, 

tried and tested favorite 

of all the birds who find 

our sunburned feeders.

Have you never understood

the stillness 

after evening's dither 

or risked the 

knowing empress-breath 

of tulip and plum, 

struck soundless 

by languid wonder?

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Steve Voght

Poem #71: "Title: A Title: B Title: Nada"

Confused by this poem? See note at end.

Title: A Title: B Title: Nada

Incandescent flight pears overhead with saris
that thorn my side like glare (soleil, soleil, soleil)

more than once upon a time, etc. etc. the woman tore her hair
and stairs collapsed (de rien)

bouyant, 1-2-3, shards burst outward
can of cat food, mountain of cans (pas de probleme)

mounting anesthesia, physics realm, dream to nightmare
Oh, Belle Dame Sans Merci. Alarm.

(c) 2013 Hannah Six

Note: In 2005, I wrote this poem in response to a few purposefully "difficult" poems I'd read. While my tastes have changed/broadened since then, I continue to (strongly) prefer poetry that is at least somewhat accessible. So...this parody is still relevant. 

Poem #70: Outside the Party

Outside the Party

Late.

From the terrace,

sheared grass stretches,

gray and undefined, into

a galaxy of stars. A cool 

breeze carries the scent of 

seaweed from beyond 

the woods. Behind her, 

a door opens, releasing 

the music, then subduing it

again with a soft click

of the latch. She does not turn,

but listens to the languid

pattern of his pace as he 

crosses the flagstones to 

the pitted concrete balustrade 

that abrades her elbows.

A hushed scrape, a flare, 

a dim crackling as a glowing 

cigarette tip answers 

the inquiry of his breath.

A sigh. The horizon

holds her eyes, drawing his 

from her ice-pale face, 

which glimmers. Like

snakes charmed from 

their low, fat baskets, two 

blue columns of smoke

meet, hesitate, and then 

begin a spiraling, ascending 

pas de deux.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Kengoora