Light Falls (Poem 242)

The radio sings 

sweetly and soft

light falls 

from the window

landing 

in a gentle splash

of that particular 

honeyed gold 

so utterly irresistible 

to well-fed cats and 

winter-weary women.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Faded Flannel (Poem 241)

Evening turns down

the moon and night 

falls. I hear you

calling my name--

but, no... It's just

yesterday's dream

following me as I

crawl between these

faded flannel sheets.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Fresh Pot (Poem 240)

"Well, at least that's over with!"

She pulled the dish towel 

from her waistband with 

a locker-room-worthy snap.

Those of us lingering

over coffee at the table

held our breath for a moment 

until, from the next room,

the television's hum 

broke the silence. Relief

seeped into the room, with 

the fragrance of a fresh

pot of coffee. The conversation 

continued, and someone 

reached out to cut another 

slice of pecan pie.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Gratitude (Poem 239)

Three days ago, the sun 

shone. We were filled with joy 

at the sight of it. Yesterday, too,

it woke us, brilliant light slanting 

through the blinds, and we 

smiled back. Today, when 

a furtive cloud caused a few 

moments of dimness, we scowled. 

"Oh, no!" we cried.

Gratitude is a demanding mistress. 

What would happen if 

you were as charmed the 

thousandth time he opened 

the car door for you 

as you were on your first date?

How would the world change if, 

when she bakes your favorite 

chocolate cake on your birthday

once more, you tell her you are 

astonished, and grateful? 

If what seems common and 

to-be-expected are, in reality, 

nothing more than abundant 

miracles we have not earned, 

do not deserve? This joy

that hauled you out of despair

is, like all things, impermanent--

it does not belong to you.

Open your heart to the coquette 

who, ignored, robs you of wonder,

and you will find her, instead,  

a generous and loyal friend, who 

--when you've forgotten today's

good fortune--will sit with you,

spread an album across your knees,

and show you her pictures.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Waves (Poem 238)

Indigo, aqua

Ocean rises heavily

Then folds into waves

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

One Eye Open (Poem 237)

We never wore shoes

in the summertime, or

hardly ever, 

anyway. We ran wild,

clambered through creeks

and the dusty eaves

of each others' houses,

hacked through brambles

and roamed across town

in search of a friend,

or a swim, or a perfect,

ripe peach whose honey-

sweet juice would gush

like love over our chins

and hands. And all 

the time, we were barefoot,

keeping one eye open

for glass shards glinting

in the hard sun, and 

the other open for glimpses

of the women we would become.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

El Camino Real, Burlingame, CA

Photo: Wikipedia Commons

Things Changed (Poem 236)

Things changed and change 

   changed and then 

her normal life was lost

   and strange   far out of 

range beyond  those mountains 

    there and those ones too 

she cared about her people 

there and cared for these 

as well    but time will tell who 

cares for her 

sometimes    he's walking 

back and walking    backtracking 

back to her in shoes whose soles 

are worn    his shoulders warm 

with sun and hard 

with snow    he'll go back some 

day and when he does she knows 

she'll pack her bags 

and head his way and walk 

those roads    touching 

with each step she steps

the bits of sole he left 

behind him when 

things changed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Soft (Poem 235)

and we become so soft

summer cool and winter 

warm    we whose ancestors 

swathed continents on foot 

by horse or wagon   each 

exquisite day in fine detail   

crocus nosing a ribbon of snow   

snapping mornings   frost 

on quilts   tang of woodsmoke   

swirling leaves   melting summer 

days in wool and collars and 

sleeves and stays   you hold 

the door   toss keys   we peel 

off layers as we go   we shed 

our strength like sweat and salt 

and subway grime swept 

seaward by the shower's cool 

pulse   an end-of-day oasis    

our stern ghosts close the door 

on our laughter as they leave

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

 

  

Betrayal (Poem 234)

vacuum bedroom 

duster shelves 

tchotchkes motes

journal beige carpet 

pages flexed   blue ink blue

lines blue 

scrawl eyes 

his mouth his mouth his mouth 

lies voices traffic crying

past the past the past   door 

street floor boxes tearing 

ripping tossing    promises

day night day night day 

hands breath head down

eyes closed 

beginning

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Gift, II (Poem 233)

When the 

    bow is untied, 

when the 

    paper is torn, 

when the 

    seal is broken, 

when the 

    top is pulled 

free 

and the tissue 

    cast aside, 

the gift 

    is revealed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

(Image: Pomegranate Council)

Gift (Poem 232)

She untied the bow

And when she opened the box

The sunrise burst forth

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

On Choosing Wisely (Poem 231)

I sat down next 

to my cat and 

asked where 

I'd gone

wrong. 

She winked, 

and said I'd 

been singing 

to a distant flock 

of  birds who hadn't 

heard a single song 

in years. 

So I dried my tears

and got cozy 

in bed. Then I 

sang to my 

cat instead.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Sketches (Poem 230)

Two sketches, beloved

no longer. Closed shutters, 

forever. She was not enough.

Small, self-effacing 

once again, being passed

to the next blank imagination.

Still, time will tell.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Is Spring... (Poem 229)

Crumpled, brown, curled in

on itself like a small bird's wing, 

a lingering leaf so gently cradled

on this bed of new snow. Is spring just

a distant memory, or a fledgling hope?

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Words Like Silk (Poem 228)

Like wool, like silk,

words wind around 

and slip through

my fingers. I bend

them, knot them,

coax them into soft, 

pleasing, useful shapes, 

always aware that 

it is not my own

shoulders the final

product must fit. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Fraught With Danger (Poem 227)

The path is narrow 

and fraught with danger. 

A cascade of tiny, five-petaled 

yellow flowers pouring down 

a rough-and-tumble stone 

fence, threatens the heart 

with memories of a bright spring 

day by a snow-swollen river. 

The vivid pastels of a rainbow 

glimpsed unexpectedly during 

a mid-storm sun break, glowing 

against graphite and white clouds, 

puts one in peril of recalling 

dreams of a future once promised, 

but perhaps not received. 

And, most dangerous of all,

the intricate imbroglio of

improvised jazz, framed 

by the undulating rustle of voices 

and staccato ring of glass and silver,

educing one glimpse of love 

so enduring, so captivating, 

that a heart, once entangled-- 

having slipped off the narrow 

path of indifference--would surely 

remain ensnared for all time.

(c) by Hannah Six

Photo: Stan Shebs

What's True (Poem 226)

What I say now

isn't always true. 

What's true is you, standing 

like some ancient blue and 

silver idol under the full moon. 

What's true is the blanket 

of mist that shrouds the valleys 

and damp fields in amethyst 

silence at dawn. 

What's true is the long, slow sway 

of the mid-day ferry between 

kelp scented sea and crisp clear sky, 

and the first joyous leap when 

those elusive dolphins burst from 

the wave off the bow. 

What's true is the sweet, slightly-musty scent 

of faded elegance and the creak 

of the stairs under our feet. 

No, what I say now 

isn't always true. 

But what I knew then, was.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Charley's Haiku (Poem 225)

Taunting yellow rump 

and that damn curlicue tail... 

You're dead, crocheted mouse!

(c) 2013, by Charley and Hannah Six

The Next Salvation

I want to tell you about the time 

   I, as a child, rode a palomino bareback 

   at a hippy commune, and it ran wild 

   toward a closed gate that it would have 

   jumped, but for the heroics of a naked   

   guy on a chestnut gelding.

I want to tell you about my family's first dog, 

   adopted at the cusp of my teen years,

   with whom I took long walks and 

   had endless soul-baring talks, until 

   she was given away.

I want to tell you about my gray hamster, 

   whose curiosity got the best of him    

   when he escaped his cage once 

   too often, and came face to face 

   with the cat on duty.

I want to tell you about one of my goldfish, 

   who lived seven years in a bowl 

   I wish I'd changed more often, and 

   for whom my grandfather cared 

   after I left for college.

I want to tell you about three of my most-beloved 

   cats, and how--after 14 years--

   my heart shatters 

   a little every day because 

   I had to leave them behind 

   to escape a life-threatening situation.

I want to tell you about one of life's 

   true miracles, which flows in 

   through the cracks and crevices in 

   the walls I've built around my heart, 

   softens the edges of past losses, 

   takes my hand, and leads me--its

   willing victim--toward the next 

   beloved, the next heartbreak, 

   the next salvation.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Blanket of Hope (Poem 223)

In the sky, fragile 

beauty, a shimmering 

memory transformed

by magical hues,

their shivering petals 

rustle a scarce-heard 

song of blooming 

dawn and sunset glow,

a blanket of hope, drawn

around the fretful fallen 

and the world, lost 

in heedless slumber 

around them

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

http://www.legion-aux.org/Programs/Poppy/

 (Photo: Eric Hill)

Floating (Poem 222)

Crows like bickering 

   demons foraging 

     in the rustling cornfield    

cicadas endlessly 

     whirring whirring 

   in the cedars   the whole 

world bleached 

white and gold and dry under 

   a dazzling haze of moisture 

      and dust and pale blue sky 

and    me    

alone    floating 

   on my back 

in the neighbor's 

     above-ground pool     

seduced by the chilling

illusion    that I am the last 

human-being    on earth 

in the oppressive   hush

   of a workday afternoon 

     in the middle of the week

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

A Day Like This (Poem 221)

On a day like this   day 

turns to gray to twilight 

to white to gray again and    

finally to night    what else 

can you do but flip 

through a magazine    or climb in 

bed with a book    or you 

can build a fire and toast

marshmallows and watch movies 

or paint or write or knit or curl 

up tight with your lover under

cover of a fluffy duvet 

and a winter day

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Then It Happens (Poem 220)

going back becomes halfway    

at loose ends on glinting pavement

clammy after a sultry city 

rain    no one to tell 

me about neighborhoods 

I already know 

how to fraternize when ruddy 

open friends have been drinking 

caramel-colored whiskey    I try 

to call but fumble and say 

I miss you silly chatty you    finally

laughing she puts you on

and wraps you around her golden

shoulders before finally going 

out    then it happens 

and once more 

that was a long time ago 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Rough Cover (Poem 219)

blanket of unconsciousness, dull,

the weft, dense, fuzzy weeds, 

mementos of a life, the rough 

weave of the real, vast world

linen, strong and durable, coarse

wool, speckled, here and there, 

with grass, leaves, and 

the occasional surprise

of honeyed January heat,

when tender petals unfurl into 

the oncoming white, 

then fade, wither, and fall

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Lace (Poem 218)

Brilliant as a Bahamian 

beach, sinuous as a flute 

in a Mozart concerto,

glossy silk unfurls 

and furls patiently, 

a whisper guided by 

a dream and a gentle touch. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Syrian Lullaby (Poem 217)

There is a sweetness in the air, 

but we fear it may be poison gas.

There is a slight chill in the air, 

but autumn's lost its charm. 

There is a peaceful silence here, 

since the soldiers left, at last. 

There is a sweetness in the air, 

a broth of weeds and bones. 

There is a slight chill in the air,

without my child in my arms. 

There is a peaceful silence here, 

now that we've left our homes. 

There is a sweetness in the air.

There is a sweetness...

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

MElting* (Poem 216)

Some days I'm the Wizard;

Others, I feel like 

     Wicked Witch goo.

Nothing for it but to rest,

So, for tonight, 

    this rhyme will have to do.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

*Thanks for understanding!

By the way... ME = Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. You can learn more here: http://www.meassociation.org.uk/about/what-is-mecfs/

Winter Verse (Poem 215)

It's winter 

     And my toes are cold

It's winter

     And the coffee's brewed

It's winter

     And the does grow bold

Searching for a meal

Where sweet green grass once grew

It's winter 

     And the frost has formed

It's winter

     And the fire's bright

It's winter 

     And your hands are warm

In the brown wool gloves

I knit for you last night

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Last Apple (Poem 214)

When the tree flowered

We felt such joy, but today

The last apple fell.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Arnstein Rønning

The Peak (Poem 213)

Like silver, the light, burnished

and reflecting the glow of

the sun's loving gaze

Like gold, the clouds, billowing

forth with abandon from 

their own illuminated dreams

Like bronze, the peak, streaming

and resplendent in the last rays

of the day before the storm 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

(Mt. Rainier, November Sunset)