New year (Poem 273)

We drew full close then,

When, pulsing, breathing, Venus 

Kneeled and kissed the dawn.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Venus reflected in the Pacific Ocean (Photo: Brocken Inaglory)

Story (Poem 272)

question story   spinning strands dream 

filaments   smooth ropes of imaginings 

swagging thickly over left arm sweating 

in water-air and dribbling into depths only 

glowing looks back like catfish after dark   

seaweed slippery through fingers curling 

clasping knots refuse unravelling   circling 

under melody smokes upward circling 

scaling love peaking slow at bottom shadow 

slides crevasse to trickle-whispers velvet 

sweet voice that full drips luscious hearts

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Sizzle (Poem 271)

Sizzle on the hot black 

browning   soft and orange 

firm bed of bright and giving 

warm and crisp   drizzled tangy 

sour tart   skin sliced swiftly

thin refreshing contrast 

cool upon the steam   moon 

so juicy blood thin trickle 

twinge of guilt and then 

is none

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Exercise in Pertinence (Poem 270)

Vikings rule 1.3 million

Newtown file yields big moments

Rapper activists lose union faith calendar

Department of More to credit hackers

     with health care law 

Bollywood actor bridging worlds, trekking 

     to own problems

Prep boys' jobless benefits unsure 

'Unseemly' grave marker downgrades

     Obamacare

Vandals give rapper activists a chance 

Syrian airstrike defined for families by

     U.S. boy 

Front-porch judge OKs avalanches at

     Kennedy Center

High-stakes tightrope walker activates

     'vote no' rally

Firms see crack packers ministering to

     Target 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

What is this? Well, simply put, it's word play! I excerpted the first two words from each of today's headlines*, and edited the results a tiny bit. This type of exercise often yields interesting results...

*found here: http://www.heraldnet.com/section/headlines

Untitled Haiku (Poem 269)

Lingering stardust

Light glows under a closed door

Never without love

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Ginkgo (Poem 268)

Silky ginkgo leaf curtain rustles 

depth and steam, not quite

gleaming, under teddy bear cocoa

and snow-globe crocuses. Surrounded

in, over, around the bristles of 

dromedary bliss, kiss the odd,

laughing fountain with yesterday's dew.

Alarming, but truly, there is very little

else to do. Far away the taffy machine's 

arms roll and rotate, a childish dance

geared toward hedghogs and 

buttered toast, almost, not quite all 

the way to Valentine's Day. Follow, 

and joy quickly blooms like concord 

grape jelly in your mouth.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: James Field

Christmas Day (Poem 267)

Above, the blue spectacular, 

swimming across the nightscape 

of our dreams, the tentacles 

of beauty drawing us ever inward, 

birdsong strung like glittering garland 

on a brightly lit Christmas tree, 

showering down upon us where 

we lay, entwined, on the forest floor's 

satin cushions, waiting for dawn's 

scarlet carpet to unfurl at our feet 

and trail like ribbons in the sky 

behind us while we make our way--

lazy and soft--toward home.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

More Beautiful to Roam (Poem 266)

When you arrive and 

no one sees you, 

let the ebb tide lead. 

Nothing you need is 

missing--close your 

umbrella and look up, 

count the salty stars. 

The ringing in your ears 

may be singing or 

the pear-shaped tones 

of distant bells. Only 

shifting night will tell 

your secrets, let them

trickle  and puddle 

at your feet, ripples 

kissing your ankles.

Draw the thread of

dreams, embroider

every lonesome night,

and in time arrive

where someone waits 

to see you home. 

So easy, that, and yet 

more beautiful to roam.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Beach (Poem 265)

so 1970-something    go to 

beach    big dark blue waves    

can swim here    ask woman   

she tells look up    wave 

towering over    she says hold 

on to me    wave comes in   

we are under water   hold on

to tree she shouts don't 

get sucked back out

necklace t-shirt shells

they sell them along 

this boardwalk    but 

no tree    no lady     just hands.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

All Else (Poem 264)

Under the covers

Book in hand, kitty on feet

All else fades away

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

When the Lions Came (Poem 263)

When the lions came, she was sitting 

at her desk, writing a letter, mundane, 

tiring. She placed her pen in its holder and yawned, squeezing 

her eyes shut in the process, then opening them very wide. And there they were: 

two females, prowling beyond the smokehouse, 

near the woodpile. Golden, raw, slightly tatty, 

imperious... Placing each paw 

with apparent indifference; their tails--thick 

as her arm--switched irritably at those ubiquitous, 

flies, glossy and vicious; their eyes, ancient, and

utterly devoid of mercy. She jumped at 

the sharp knock on her door, repressed 

annoyance when the handle rattled.  

When she returned to the window, they had gone, 

leaving her abashed, sensing that she had been 

observed, found lacking, and carelessly dismissed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Photo: Bjørn Christian Tørrissen

The Last Cup (Poem 262)

You take this ordinary 

suffering for quite a long time:

to avoid helping yourself
to the last cup 

of smoky coffee, to not 

consider the slosh of it into 

your smudged, brown mug--

the one with indentations where 

the artist's fingers found purchase--

creating a steam-pressed footprint

on the crackled letter 

(signature required) from your lawyer. 

Beyond this

window is a moonscape, astonishing

and devoid of rocks, trees, lizards, 

drawing your few visitors toward 

the glass--cold air helplessly tugged 

into the thin atmosphere 

of an overheated room.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

(Photo: Joselyn Anfossi Mardones)

Curtain (Poem 261)

A rosy mist lifts

Shimmer of sun stirs the air

Parts sorrow's curtain

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Tea, in Georgetown, 2006 (Poem 260)

It was perfect, sitting across from 

her, hazel eyes bright, focused

on a tiny cup of Devonshire 

cream    tea in an eggshell-fragile 

room, silver fluttering like birdsong

against porcelain, fairy vases 

of violets smiling back at us from 

their Baby's Breath bowers   her deft 

fingers, used to small work, barely 

able to grasp tea cup handles small 

as mouse ears    we laughed 

self consciously, aware of 

our self-aware self-awareness, 

and complicit in our crimes against 

the more civilized aspects of society

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Only Enough (Poem 259)

It's cold outside, but I 

am warm.   Safely tucked 

beneath blankets, watching 

the storm heave its gray 

sighs amongst the cedars. 

My cats, becurled in their favorite 

chairs, enhance the cozy 

sense of enchanted remove.  

The world cannot touch us  

here.  There is only peace,

there is only contentment,

there is, in this moment, as always, 

only enough.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Froglets (Poem 258)

The day is young 

and sweet, the song 

as yet unsung

gather all your truths

and dreams you've spread 

out in the sun 

Lie on the cooling grass 

and name the blue above   

Allow the fresh-born froglets 

to tell you mysteries 

of love    pure as a silver bell 

their chorus 

swells in every key 

Remember each 

bright secret and    please

write them down 

for me.

 (c) 2013, by Hannah Six

On Waking (Poem 257)

There, just beyond the shadows' 

edge, fleeting silver 

and gold, skimming like sand 

through my fingers    trying 

will get me nowhere

It's the  not  trying, the skipping

stones, sliding through sideways

that nets the fish, cold 

and iridescent and rolling in 

the shallow water 

until, with a sigh, 

I release it    onto the page 

or back into the indigo depths 

from which it came, tail shimmering

until it vanishes from sight

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

A Good Zombie (Poem 256)

being silenced is funny 

that way    in the way hippies used 

to say it was important to express your 

feelings     

when they really meant:

be a good zombie, and follow 

the program: stagger, shed a chunk 

of flesh, eat brains, and do not think 

for yourself     or have any untoward 

feelings 

so, when 

the apocalypse comes and we 

all buy balloons and cotton candy 

and politely welcome 

the oncoming giant meteor 

or, perhaps, 

take smirking selfies with a cloudburst 

of nuclear missiles raining down from 

the blue, blue sky 

over our right shoulders 

no one should be 

surprised     

in the same way that 

no one should shout 

he  is  so  angry 

when 

he is so angry    for fear of frightening 

the very people who urged him to 

express his 

feelings 

because to be angry is 

to have an anger problem

to be very sad is

to be clinically depressed

to prefer tea to wine is

to be uninvited    because 

obviously that person

does not know how to enjoy himself

and makes the drunks 

uncomfortable    it's funny 

how that works     

isn't it

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Zombies as portrayed in George Romero's movie Night of the Living Dead 

The Picture* (Poem 255)

the easel 

full of extraordinary 

     personal distance should create 

a sense of abstract beauty    some 

will reason but never see 

     the painter 

pleasure seemed to linger in 

     his fingers    sought to imprison 

        a curious dream 

work best done languidly

large and vulgar many

     only see the dreadful 

pictures    people don't 

     think anywhere

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

(*edited erasure poem created using a few paragraphs from Chapter 1 of "The Picture of Dorian Gray," by Oscar Wilde)

Red (poem 254)

Red, the color of mistakes

And cowboy boots

And velvet cakes

Of hand-drawn hearts and valentines

And King Snake stripes

And most stop signs

Red, the hue of true love's rose,

And Dorothy's shoes

And lava flows

The painted lips of movie stars

And salmon roe

And F1 cars

The curtains on an old-time stage

And baboon butts

And primal rage

Red, the color of mistakes

And poppy flowers

And velvet cakes

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Gray (Poem 253)

with birds scuttling like mice

in the mounds of graying leaves

packed under the bushes

and sleek clouds slurping 

every last drop of sunshine from 

the day    great hunched shoulders

of a rough-hewn mountain range

braced against the wind like people tumbling down Market Street 

at the far end of a Tuesday in March 

their black umbrellas bleached by

the rain and fighting their handlers

with stark ferocity    and the shawl 

of shimmering yet lethal stones set 

in concrete around the swimming pool

as if chosen with a particularly

horrid child in mind 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Dismissed (Poem 252)

She said: You can't

trust yourself to know

illness from health.

She said: Obviously, you 

must be wrong because 

you confuse me.

She said: The sky, now that 

you ask, is magenta, striped 

with lime. And burgundy.

She said: I cannot see

any reason why you should 

avoid consuming arsenic, 

bleach, or poison ivy.

She said: You are dismissed.

I agreed.

Stray (Poem 251)

You don't have to stay, but I saw

your eyes when I came home 

tonight. Were you expecting a little

private dinner, a tête–à–tête, 

perhaps? Were you attracted, 

moth-like, to my warmth? 

Or was it the softness of my gaze,

my smile, my whisper? Your long 

legs, the luscious browns and tans 

of you, and gorgeous, sweeping 

hair are alluring, I'll admit. 

The more I saw, the more 

I wanted you for my own. 

But, alas, I am not free. 

You are two too late. Unless-- 

I could convince them that you'll 

help around the house. 

You know, make yourself useful...play 

a few games, keep them entertained. 

I think they'd come to like having you

around. I know I would. No, you don't 

have to stay but I made up a bed 

for you, just in case...

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Deep Thoughts on a Norwegian Email (Poem 250)

the day ends looking 

at his call: drones 

for retail bidders

fractal: infinite pattern in love

with all others perplexed, cross, indifferent 

bitter yelling: so, fortune hunting 

any that were booty calls?

post script: in order to get good 

tabouli, why not let her pilot 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Out of the Silence (Poem 249)

The water, a silk scarf, pooled teal; 

a door slammed at the foot 

of the cliff; and out of the silence, 

a wall [navy, brown, colors repeated] 

arose. Not a guttural animal 

in the mountains beyond, 

but a cry, a calculated move. 

The sky above my pencil intended

to draw attention, scratching 

on the rough cold to convey 

pitiful suffering. Pressed, we both

knew the paper, like the wind, 

in truth, did not exist. Blustering 

in the shadows of the wall, was he; 

evergreens were the only sound,

a well-planned retribution. 

Emerald-tender grass spread

like an indictment, a rich carpet

laid at my feet: My hopes, 

my feelings, and my needs

welcomed and sustained me.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Big Mistakes (Poem 248)

He was never afraid 

to make big mistakes. His 

ugliest canvas hung, like 

a billboard, in Times Square. 

His memorable Carnegie Hall 

debut was marred by many 

a forgotten lyric. That's why 

I failed to trust him 

to hang the sun in the sky,

to hang the moon, which 

was probably a good thing, 

because if I had trusted him 

with celestial bodies 

I might have, eventually, 

trusted him with my heart.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Reminder (Poem 247)

Here, in this moment

Breathe: All is well, all is well

Now, and now, all's well

(c) 2013,  by Hannah Six

Candles (Poem 246)

Warm, but cold, the room

looks blue, old carpeting

tan, dark windows shutting

their eyes 

on the shortest day 

of the year. I am here;

home is where you are, 

which is not in this chill

graying room with me.

Candles, I hear, bring

a spark of life to a room

such as this. When my match

kisses their vulnerable white

wicks and flares, it's clear

they are right. I light some more,

then watch their dancing flames

whipping the darkness back 

into the small corners

of this room.

 (c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Past Imperfect (Poem 244)

Outside, the sun, a clear winter 

day; inside the sofa sinks 

and swells, an old friend's

warm embrace, a deep well

of comfort and strength.

Someone else chose it and

treated it gently, as if knowing

it would someday be mine. 

Like the wind-chimes that thrill 

to the wind in my yard, 

and my favorite chair--

where I knit, write, and dream,

and brush kitty's luxurious hair--

the few things I own don't just 

fill up my home. I delight

in the items I choose, and 

the histories of those 

that have been loved and used. 

As my grandmother said 

way back when: Everything 

old becomes new again. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six 

On Illness (Poem 243)

From without, betrayal can 

     rob your life of love,

     turn a summer day 

     to gray, a sparkling 

     sea to mud.

From within betrayal can 

     rob your love of life,

     suddenly your faith is gone,

     the songs you hummed

     fall silent.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six