Blue Jacket (Poem 305)

It is enough that you closed 

the door, which had only ever 

been ajar to begin with.

It is enough that you prefer 

smooth, succulent new growth, 

I, ancient redwood groves. 

It is enough that you chose 

to turn, laughing, toward those 

who do not know how long 

you took to buy 

one black jacket.

You will tell the story of 

the door you closed, though 

you will say it opened. 

You will learn to love the fruits 

of summer, not only their 

fragrant spring blossoms.  

You will turn, laughing, toward 

those who know how long 

you took to buy 

one blue jacket. 

It must be enough that they, 

not I, will be there.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

(In the interest of full disclosure: This poem is adapted from an original poem I wrote in 2011.)

Oktoberfest (Poem 304)

A semi-sleeping dream 

found her washing up

on shore, helpless 

and deadly   serious

about enjoying herself

complete with dirndl 

dancing and a sweet

amber Fest-Märzen she 

proclaimed her intention 

to let her hair down and 

executed a perfect swan 

dive into Oktoberfest

swilling smoke and polkas 

trying to clear her heart

of him   of the glimpse 

of bright hair among 

the drunken sailors at 

the edge of the night

For that instant, heart pounding

For that instant, feeling lovely 

and hopeful and thoroughly vivid

swelling up with it all 

until her skin stretched taut

and shiny across her cheekbones 

But the festival is over.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Wednesday Cafe (Poem 303)

The voices of Saturday afternoon linger 

in the walls, reverberating off a red concrete floor, 

cleverly poured in a terra-cotta tile grid, and 

scored with fine lines of charcoal-gray, faux grout.

The café tables, pushed and shoved on Saturday 

into unfamiliar groupings, are back 

in their customary spots, each with 

two or four unburdened chairs at rest below. 

Wednesday's voices--tender, serious, 

subdued--hang easy on the air.

"This space is not mine," they seem to 

say, "but I will share it with you."  

Nearby, a petite elderly couple share 

a table for two. (He: espresso and 

an owlish hooked nose; she: cappuccino

with a straw, her sneakered toes 

barely touching the floor.) Both

husband and wife have attained 

an equal degree of baldness. They take turns 

reading aloud from a shiny British magazine, 

exclaiming--just a tad too loudly--over 

familiar names and places, drawing chuckles 

and indulgent smiles from the scant 

handful of students, shoppers, and 

writers scattered about the room.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

The Cupboards (Poem 301)

(A bit of nonsense for you tonight...)

Impatiently, the cupboards 

groaned, all too aware 

their cherry tone, and 

bright brass pulls

had become passé.  

Trembling with impatience, 

they bared all to a consultant,

then panted through 

a painting, and put on 

a bit of bling. 

Darting toward modernity

they sacrificed capacity.

Their youthful glow,

they pray, might hide

the fact that they

have less inside. 

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

To Designers of Writing Apps Lacking Autosave Features (Poem 300)

To designers of writing apps 

lacking autosave features:

I want to tell you about a 

beloved poem, and 

my bereavement...

After struggling for hours 

to meet my self-imposed 

daily deadline, I spotted and 

captured the elusive 

poem I was hoping to meet. 

Long and glossy, it slithered  

around my words, curling 

and twisting, flicking them 

delicately with its tiny, forked 

tongue until they draped over

the page exactly as I desired.

Oddly enough, this very 

poem disappeared without 

even a pouf, when my fingertip 

slipped a millimeter and

--instead of 'copy', 

   tapped 'paste'.

In the brief moment it took for 

my heart to disconnect from 

my chest and fall to the carpet 

with a wet thump, my winding, 

spiraling, untamed poem slithered, 

in all its jewel-hued glory, back 

into the impenetrable jungle 

of my mind.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

August, Ocean City (Poem 299)

boardwalk unrolls 

splintering gray runner

mouths gape to

accept wads of 

cotton candy 

crises of disallowed

ice cream cones 

headlined in bold

angry cries spread 

on shrinking towels 

hot oiled bodies 

brown and pink 

planks scuffed and 

polished by decades 

among hats and 

sandals purchased 

at damp gritty shops 

above the vast blue 

sky stark as a faded 

polaroid picture in 

a shell-encrusted frame 

light tang of salt on 

the air shimmering

as far as the eye can see

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Boardwalk at Ocean City, NJ 

(photo: by Arabsalam, Wikipedia Commons)

From Your Window (Poem 298)

From your window, golden 

light paints six shimmering squares

on this pristine snow...

outside, I count falling stars,

my wishes linger like mist

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

The poem above is a tanka, a 31-syllable Japanese form. To learn more, visit: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5793

One More Day (Poem 297)

One more day of sunshine 

on the Sound, of empty-minded 

wanderings, of crossing 

lawns too damp for dreaming 

on, deep glades of kelp that 

wave below the surface 

of the bay, so cold, always 

so cold...

One more day of cedars 

in the fog, black and gray, 

where color used to live, 

a robin and a crow assess 

the day (no scarlet cardinals sing 

on these limbs), remembering 

the silky light of June, 

a profusion of pastel foxgloves 

in her arms, gathered in a 

quiet roadside field, 

making even strangers feel 

at home, until the rains return 

and summer's gone.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Quilt (Poem 296)

His coffee cup meets the table: crack. She winces, and looks away from his shameful anger. The world, after all, is acknowledged to be unfair and unpredictable; but it is also graced with the gentle, everyday beauty she witnesses from this very window while she sews. With calm certainty, she knows he will soon wander back to her chair. With practiced nonchalance, he'll wrap her in a one-armed embrace and kiss her--first on her forehead, then on her left cheek, and finally, tenderly, on her slightly-parted lips.

Layers, thick and thin,

Married with fine filaments,

Pliant, enduring

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

(Teachable moment: This form is known as Haibun, a short work of prose combined with a gently-related haiku. And now you know!)

After a While You Forget (Poem 295)

After a while you simply forget. 

You forget how to stand up, to sit 

   down, and how to move. 

You forget how to walk with liquid strides,

   how to swim 42 long, silent laps, 

   while shafts of sunlight sink

   into the cool tourmaline pool.

You forget how to talk to people 

   you meet while lingering over a

   mediocre Malbec on a shady patio, 

   how to chat with that sweet girl in 

   the pet store, who always looks at you 

   with a curious concern in 

   her rain-colored eyes.

You even (and not infrequently) forget 

   how to organize your thoughts into an 

   email to a friend from back home.

You certainly forget how to climb across

   seaweed-slick boulders at low tide,

   plucking hermit crabs from tide-pools

   to marvel at their affronted bravado 

   and the perfection of their tiny claws.

After a while, you even forget how 

   to dash across a snowy intersection

   for a five-dollar slab of 

   moist, gritty pretzels from a guy 

   with a shopping cart at Sixth and Vine,  

   and, you realize with a soft whoosh 

   of surprise, 

how to settle into the low-slung wobble

   and sway of the subway 

   on your way to 'the Vet' for 

   a Twi-Night Double Header 

   on a July afternoon so hot and 'umid

   that the air feels oxygen depleted, 

   as if it had already been breathed.

 (c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Partly Sunny (Poem 294)

Partly-sunny skies 

(Nice name for partly cloudy):

White sails on blue sea.

(c) 2014, Hannah Six

Insomnia (Poem 293)

There are days when you want to talk, 

    but don't want anyone to hear 

    what you're saying, 

         when you want to share your writing

         without first having to edit your words, 

             when you want to sing, but don't 

             want people to hear the roughness 

             of your voice.

There are days when you climb in bed 

    exhausted, but don't want to sleep, 

         when you want to hide in your home, 

         but can't bear the thought that you might 

         miss something exciting, 

             when you feel the cold deep 

             in your bones, but resist the weight 

             of the warm brown blanket.

There are days when someone waits 

    for you, but you are unwilling to hurry, 

        when your belly gurgles and groans 

        with hunger, but you cannot bring yourself 

        to swallow food, 

            when you dream that you've awakened,

            and then, upon waking, find that your life 

            was nothing more than a sweet dream all 

            along, and that you have suddenly 

            developed insomnia.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Sri Lanka* (Poem 292)

Serendipity: a silly schoolgirl dream

      to leave the pitted streets and

Ruled lines of my home, 

Intimately known through years

      of delicate fingering and tasting, 

Lingering like a deer at the 

      lapping edge of the floodwaters 

      of 

Awareness, 

Never veering from the course I set    

      before I was me, 

      before I knew the searing 

Kiln of age 

      firing my bones, 

      the chill of condensation settling 

      like a scarf around my ankles,    

      almost (but never quite) 

      far enough

Away.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

*In response to an exercise suggested by Poet Carolyne Wright at a workshop in Auburn, Wa.

September Saturday Night (Poem 291)

Before you speak, a song 

swings into my bias-cut mind,

draping these dreams in veils

blue as smoke, as indigo,

as sky reflected in sea 

reflected in your eyes.

Try as I might--melody

becomes you, finds me, 

swaying in your arms while 

the champagne sky sparkles 

overhead, harmonizing with 

the varied charms of this 

September Saturday night.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Garden Party (Poem 290)

And, this afternoon, when 

the bleached sun is burnished gold, 

all the wrong people will gather 

to forage in the garden, like squirrels, 

for old chestnuts of simplicity, and 

the bitter acorns from which resilience 

springs. Predictably, they will come up 

empty-handed and stand, mumbling, 

in groups of three and four 

before retiring to an elegant pergola,

like so many overripe summer 

fruits piled into a sticky brass bowl 

in a sunny spot.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

 

Yellow Quince (Poem 289)

Rainfall builds a rhythm on a 

dove-gray morning, 

only days after the barn has been filled, 

ripe autumn promise hanging,

like languid inspiration, in the air.

It is not so long since the sharp, yellow 

quince, heavily perfumed, tugged limbs 

toward the ground;

the fig's smooth white bark and fragrant 

leaves flirted with dreams of its own 

sweet, seeded flesh;

and striking, stippled-pink dahlias and flowing white jasmine coaxed songbirds 

to perch and explore the shady undersides 

of a glossy stand of azaleas.

Now--long after the delight of spring 

flowers, their pale, delicate tendrils 

probing 

fences, trees, and walls-- jays argue 

over the last, fat blackberries hidden 

in the hedges, 

and the tenderness of dandelions and willows 

gives way to earthy hues of nettles and oak.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Southerly Migration (Poem 288)

immeasurable poppies 

recline in 

a dull breeze   snapshot 

of flora capturing decades

of caterpillar teachings

fog of lavender 

and fortunate mint

settles in the veins

wringing sentiment 

from reserve   uttering

hushed secrets to enduring 

life's commitment to 

innovation   declining 

to return   deciding instead 

to ally with wild birds 

on their southerly migration

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Volcano, Moon (Poem 287)

Under the volcano  the moon 

twinkles in the blue  deep blue 

sky in the sea 

and we on our backs looking 

up into the volcano   the moon 

silvering my ears a tune  notes 

fly between us or above the 

radio loves profound silence 

the curtains  the floors  two 

stories to tell and show 

old woman below  

eyes us whitely  disapproval

knit tight in her buttonhole 

frown  we laugh  drowning 

in our own story

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Layers of Freedom (Poem 286)

Small girl 

votes yes for 

revolution    she falls 

from the sky 

a tumbleweed 

seeking buttery layers 

of freedom    burrowing 

into the prominent 

lap of home    she petals open 

and rain falls 

glorious    ancestral memories 

counter 

aspirations    a treaty with 

the future    a pact 

with the past    watchful 

hopeful dunes of her 

expectant heart crossed 

with the provocative 

tracks of massive 

armored trucks    buried 

under the shifting sands of her 

heated experience    there 

is no real choice

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

 Rub al-Khali desert in Saudi Arabia, sunset, November 2007 (photo: Javierblas)

Things You Should Know (Poem 285)

Redemption 

options include: 

time 

  $50 or 

     more notice. 

If no preference, 

you will receive 

change. 

You cannot be fulfilled 

without eligible rewards. 

You may only retain 

   your records.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Leeward Shore (Poem 284)

a shivering unrestful night 

we glimpsed 

with sympathetic awe 

a tempestuous golden 

woodland scorched 

by malicious snow

our bitterest drives once 

reeled along 

the tumbling leeward 

shore whose vindictive waves 

and storm-tossed port 

made us shudder 

homeward toward comfort, 

safety, faded quilts 

the dire violin posture 

of jeopardy must graze 

our unmentionable mortalities

seeking refuge as we age

before rushing 

headlong into such

a perilous voyage

(c) 2014 by Hannah Six

Subtle (Poem 283)

Secretly, the dawn

Eludes night, veiled in soft mist

Subtle visitor

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Like a Whisper (Poem 282)

pressed between 

the pages skid and stutter 

and promise another 

suggestion 

a fountain of late summer 

like a snowstorm on 

the driveway of short heavy 

nights like a whisper 

words wrinkle the crisp 

sheets of dust 

motes in miles of slanting 

clarity pressed petal-like 

between pages the lyrical

a whisper 

just words

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Lone Star Angel (Poem 281)

Summer blazes above these clouds-- 

a sky so blue it cleaves the heart,

a sun so vast it fills the sky,

and puts all other stars to shame.

Beneath these clouds a thin life wavers,

laid, prone and lifeless, on a bed.

Her loved ones long to grant her wish,

for she is dead in all but name.

Oh, Lone Star, why enchain this angel,

and banish her to winter's gloom--

against the claims of summer's glory--

through laws so heartless, cold, and vain?

If the God  you worship recalled her

to his realm, there she should be.

Man's interference is her prison.

Would you a soul from Him detain?

Nature's miracles are superseded,

it appears, now by medicine;

but we, compassionate, can restore 

the balance to this foolish game.

Above these clouds a summer blazes.

Here, only kindness dispels the chill.

Some things are best not legislated--

the decision's theirs who bear the pain.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Under the Duvet (Poem 280)

So, I'd tell you, writing poetry 

often feels like this: 

Some nights, when I wiggle 

my toes under the duvet, 

my cat's eyes grow dark 

and he pounces. Maybe he 

pretends the movement is 

a blanketed mouse, or maybe 

he simply dislikes my feet. 

Whatever his reasons, 

one fact remains: 

Even though he can't see it, 

he believes 

the prize exists; and, 

mouse or toes, 

it will eventually be revealed.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

White Carpet (Poem 279)

The knife was sharp, the melon's deep green rind firm and waxy beneath my hand. 

From never again to head-over-heels in a breath, I gave my heart carelessly.

The blade found purchase and I pushed down into the soft red flesh. 

Given my history, perhaps I should have looked beyond the angels in your eyes, whose beauty stunned me.

Slice number one: not quite halfway through. 

Before I knew it, I was laughing.

Slice number two: almost there. 

Next thing I knew, I was singing.

Slice number three: the melon slipped.

Taking me by the hand, you pulled me into a future as tempting and weightless as a prism's rainbow.

I drew my hand back in a flash, but not before a drop of red splashed into and mingled with the ruby juice on the counter.

With winter came the brittle cold, and that particular northern light that brings clarity and depth to all shades.

"Be careful, darling" my grandmother said, dabbing at the cut with a kitchen towel.

Recklessly, you gestured, and I watched my snow-white carpet give way, again, to the lurid darkness of your spilled wine.

"You must watch what you're doing," she warned, "or you'll hurt yourself."

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

A Ballet (Poem 278)

Their natural welcome conjured

pure beauty and grace, bright and 

simple as a suggestive breath.

We basked in the bespoke glow 

of that willing family: each 

a single filament woven into 

a vast, sumptuous tapestry; each 

emitting a special blue hum,

a cheerful, classical palette, 

subtle and beautiful. 

What we hoped, what they thought,

a ballet of peacocks and dragonflies

in the gloaming.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Five Words (Poem 277)

musing shivering sharply   she 

fancied silence until 

the journey    yet she whispered 

five words before chancing 

upon 

an explanation

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Let It Go (Poem 276)

covered with moss, the flat-topped rock is 

cool, spongy, damp 

as a well-wrung dishcloth    around it, crystal 

clear and speaking in tongues, snow-melt urges 

a stream upward, lifting grasses along the bank until 

the strands ripple like silk   there, in the deep 

emerald shade, the siren silence fills your ears, 

lures thoughts and cares into another, glacial 

world, where they remain indefinitely 

suspended    devoid of words, fingers feel, eyes 

see    a leaf with deckled golden edges 

floats on the current

let it go, let it go

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Untitled Senryu (Poem 275)

Don't ask me tonight

Because you don't really want

To know how I feel.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

I Am Not (Poem 274)

I am not stay in bed to keep warm 'cause the electric bill can't be paid.

I am not better make this food last because there's no more until next payday.

I am not lock the door and don't you answer for any reason, because mama's got to work late tonight and a babysitter costs too damn much.

I am not I can't afford the rent (again)--what am I going to do?

I am not hotel bombed in Africa, at least 11 killed. 

I am not just come on over, because our internet and phone got turned off.

I am not went in to work at eight, got laid off at nine, and was driving home by 10 a.m.

I am not who do those people think they are, expecting us to just sit back and watch while they [insert inequity of choice here].

I am not your benefits have been denied, Merry Christmas.

I am not

And yet I am

Because they are

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six