Before You Begin (Poem 365)

to kill a poem 

before you begin 

decide: a masterpiece 

an epic important problem 

of intention and meaning 

decide: an elegant haiku 

to be quoted down 

the centuries

assign: an emotion 

tell people: what you plan 

to write about 

tell yourself: this 

is a poem 

insist on the form 

before the content    squeeze 

the cow into the carton

be inflexible about looking 

at the world through a haze 

of intimate wisdom 

be too flexible about 

your nonfat milk turning

walk through water, missing 

the exit feeling    guilty that 

the wish of doom

scratches against 

the toothy sketchbook paper 

on the table

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Rain Turns (Poem 364)

The way soft streets 

break, tarmac murmurs,

and crooked brick paths

carry promises, the clouds

grow heavy, sagging 

with their jade burden.

A white piano catches, 

hums with flames, burning 

gazelle stupidity the way 

cities burn smooth kids.

Tepid rain turns, spits, 

purring smoke, 

admits nothing not proven 

by kiosks while neighbors

sleep, cats charm 

doorways, and sighs wander,

carrying blossoms to heaven, 

even as Hades stirs.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Call It (Poem 363)

Call it what you will, 

when tiredness sinks 

like syrup in your veins, 

turning your body to lead, 

thoughts growing heavy 

in your head, flowing 

like molasses through 

the channels of your brain,

feverish and dull, the trick 

is to find new dreams to dream, 

new thoughts to think, to fight

boredom, and stand up against 

the tyranny of despair. 

Call it what you will, this 

invisible illness bringing 

into question your every inaction, 

opening the doors of judgment 

among the more critical factions 

inhabiting your life, setting up 

housekeeping in your brain, 

changing the ever-changing life 

you hoped you'd have, the trick 

is to find a likely nook, build a nest, 

and crawl in for a few hours 

(or days) of rest, come what may,

to turn away from the less than 

understanding, and to be willing 

to embrace the mystery of it all, 

the unnamed maw drawing you 

closer each day, and the way 

the sun shines through 

your curtains in the morning. 

Call it what you will, if you listen 

you will hear a warning, 

whispered or shouted: 

Heed me; 

slow down; 

be more selfish; and 

honor the luminous light 

glazing the shimmering, 

glassine surfaces of 

the sacred temple 

that is you. This, 

call it what you will, is 

the trick, the secret, the answer 

to every question ever asked.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

So Should You Be (Poem 362)

When heaven's heavy air 

is jade, so should you be.

Desire, in a mightier soul

of constellated stars, 

hushes the liquescent

flame cut from gardens,

dripping with wisteria,

at their most verdant.

Oh, take away that map 

within—it learned to lie 

to me. Instead, wrap up 

your gratitude, and

watch the morning bloom,

then whisper, after dark

tonight, of the honor 

in beauty's name: 

A poet selling words 

of delight and ennui for 

hours in the blinding veils 

of deep blue desert twilight.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Health Care Costs (Poem 361)

Wash your veggies, cut them up,

And juice a green drink every day.

Let cow's milk never touch your cup!

Throw your whole-wheat bread away.

Make smoothies from fresh, organic fruit,

(Or frozen if you're in a rush).

Bake yams--the more nutritious root,

Not buttery, white-potato mush.

No meat! Eat varied beans and rices,

Cut out all sugar and caffeine!

Don't complain about high prices,

Or being too tired to cook and clean!

Too sick or poor to afford eating healthy?

Who cares? It's the privilege of the wealthy.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Photo: Jasper Greek Golangco 

The Best Decision (Poem 360)

When I looked up 

and saw you 

staring at me 

from the store across 

the corridor, wearing 

that ridiculous, 

black leather, 

button-up vest, I knew, 

without doubt, that 

I had made the best 

decision of my life.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Naked Hands (Poem 359)

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I notice they are not working 

ice-cold water, a little at a time, 

into flour and lard, rolling the dough 

to a perfect thickness to contain 

beef juice and melting butter, 

nor are they handing the trimmings 

to little girls eager to fold and crimp 

their own tiny pies.

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I am amazed at how clean they are--

no paint stains too stubborn 

for turpentine, no red clay in crevices 

and grooves, no berry juice, 

tree sap, or dark rich potting soil 

under the nails.

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I notice they are still, rather 

than endlessly busy with needle, 

shuttle and thread, embroidering 

flowers and tatting lace for hundreds 

of handkerchiefs, pillowcases, 

doilies and antimacassars.

Looking down at my naked hands, 

I recognize a few tiny sun spots, 

a raised vein, the texture of skin 

not quite as plump and immaculate

as a child's. I see that they are 

familiar, comfortable, capable, and 

(with a frisson of surprise) 

I see that they are mine.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Chestnut (Poem 358)

Chestnut-sheltered bench

Here, dusky flowers whisper

Becalmed waters sigh

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

You Are Mine* (Poem 357)

You are mine, are found in me,

Found, as you deny invisibility,

Found, unlike a shadow at midnight,

Found, as a raindrop on desert sands.

I dislike you, yet you lose me still,

Your earthly body, homely and dim,

Yet you are not you, refusing

Capture, as shadow is found in shade.

Let me lift you from the mire of apathy--

   touch

Your dullness, find you exulting 

   in sensation,

Planted in the cool, dark shadows

Of my dispassion.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

*An exercise in contrariness, based on "I Am Not Yours" by Sara Teasdale

At the Shore, in April (Poem 356)

Offshore, fog blooms,
but here, boats shimmer in 
watery sunlight, creaking 
old floorboard tunes.

Pelicans fall from the sky
over  rocks shivering
dark with sea lions 

Cold April winds set old lovers 

to walking, where poetry flutters in 

the budding trees like piano keys 

trilling under small, young hands.

Misty children skip along the wet 

sand, tracing lacy puffs of foam, 

their fits of giggles rising, gull-like, 

on the breeze. 

Selflessly, they offer jingling 

shell-and-sea-glass trinkets to their 

mothers, who watch the day unfold 

from rumpled plaid blankets, 

eyes scanning the stanzas 

written on the horizon.

As twilight blooms, wood smoke 

melts sunburned smiles, leaves bright 

eyes bleary. Foolishly in love, young
couples linger until midnight, then 

trail off, hearts burning for their 

white-painted bedrooms. 

In full joy, three dolphins leap,
luminescent, beyond the point. 

Boats sputter. Later, 
the golden stars will sway
and spin.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Consolation (Poem 355)

The first time I heard them, there 

were only a few, but the nights 

had been silent, long, cold, 

and their voices rose like hope 

from the woods, making 

my heart ache and sing. 

Soon, the chorus swelled to tens 

of thousands, a chaotic rapture, 

myriad silver threads 

embroidering thin, blue evenings 

with a complicated pattern. 

When I learned that, here, 

neither crickets nor fireflies 

would glaze the darkness with 

familiar summer sweetness, 

my ribcage throbbed, bruised 

by longing and regret. 

Still, the ache lingers (growing 

sharp if I touch that spot, 

just so); but the worst of it 

has passed, eased 

by the choir of countless, tiny 

camouflage-clad froglets, 

to whose voices I opened 

my windows, despite 

the seeping chill, and 

by the heart's willingness to rest 

for a few beats--pressed close against nature's breast--

and be soothed by 

lullabies ancient and familiar.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Photo: Kevin JF Martin

Fleurette Africaine (Poem 353)

Coffee, short and sweet;

a coral haze over 

violet shadowed streets 

portends the day's 

breathless heat;

voices of waking and

of a long night's end

linger in alleyways;

a radio nearby plays

Fleurette Africaine--

a thin, crackling version

punctuated by the dull

flap flap flap of sandals 

on pavement, 

the delicate snap 

of newspaper pages, 

and the rhythmic tapping 

of tiny cups touching down 

on wafer-thin saucers.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

   Photo: © Frank Schulenburg

Dirty Words (Poem 352)

Imagine fifty 

people

then

multiply that

group 

by a million 

and add, oh, a few

hundred thousand,

or so.

How much space 

do they take 

up, all those people?

What is 

that kid

in the third row

wearing?

How does his hair feel

to his grandmother's

veined hand, which rests

lightly, there,

on the back 

of his neck?

In America every 

single

one 

of this sea of humans

lives the dream

in food insecure 

households.

Children in all 

of these households 

were food 

insecure.  

Tens and tens 

of millions of

    People

live/love/starve/laugh on

Ten-thousand dollars

a year 

for a family 

of 

four.

Authorities 

who know

call this extreme 

poverty,

but 

[hush...]

poverty is 

     a dirty word,

so don't think

about

it.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Nightingale (Poem 351)

I feel like a nightingale

like a curse

like a poet   like a girl

like a Girl Poet cursed with

the liquiscent voice of a nightingale

I feel like a hamburger

like a traveler

like a prom queen

like a shooting match

Like a traveling prom queen 

dressed in tweed and brogues

for a cozy, country-estate shooting match

I feel like a pincushion

like a jazz fan, a swimmer, a candy bar

I feel like a listener, like a crystal

like a languid cat listening to a crystalline,

aqua-blue jazz set

I feel like myself     I feel   

like myself   I feel like my self

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Private Club (Poem 350)

Triumphantly, the darkness 

burns away what sparse

blue coastal light remains 

at ten o'clock.

Deep promises are deftly 

uncorked; dreamy trumpet, 

faintly sharp, listens

to itself.

Thigh-to-thigh, at the bar, 

we imagine their small 

smiles of surprise at 

being admitted into 

our private club.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Violet (Poem 349)

Verdant, mosses beneath arching 

    lilac branches--bright, velvety, 

    a tiny secret world;

In earliest spring, windows, at last,

Open, house drinking fresh, 

    crisp air to quench 

    a winter-long thirst;

Later, when the day grows soft and 

    the sun rests

    on the moist

Earth below this room,

The scent of violets will alight, 

    fragile as the powder 

    on butterflies' wings.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Diamonds in the Sun (Poem 348)

It's too sweet:

that bright green tendril,

so delicate, breaking

through the crust of

dry, sandy earth.

It's too simple:

water, air, light,

and one gray speck 

so small my childish 

fingers fumbled for it 

in the wrinkle of flesh 

in my folded palm.

It's too delicate:

The memory of her

smile, her patience,

her joy in the everyday

adventures we shared,

like clambering down

rocky paths to run

on a quiet beach,

like seeing our sweet peas

waving like fairies' flags 

in the brisk Pacific breeze,

like walking along 

a sidewalk glittering with 

mica, and pretending

to be blinded by 

diamonds in the sun.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Quest (Poem 347)

Disorientation. 

Analyst curious about 

deplorable snake. 

Quest...

Crossed paths with 

twelve howling, hirsute

prophets--more annoying 

than compelling.

Mouth of great basin.

Elder: "Behold, 

agreeable Pilgrim!"

Debauchery.

Noted phenomena 

with keen eye:

evolution of birds

bridge evacuations 

grainy acoustic gadgets

The birthplace of giving.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Early Riser (Poem 346)

Caramel colors glint in the sweating glass

That waits, hidden, behind the pumpkin-

    shaped 

Cookie jar; still dark, but morning comes

    upon us fast,

Gray and mysterious, louche figures

    lighting the trees, draped

Over branches and curled like cats in the

    bushes' dark undersides.

Behind the yellow gingham curtains, a

    cherry-red lamp burns,

Casting its warming smile over

    generations of memories that hide--

Barely out of sight--each patiently

    waiting, fluttering out in turn. 

Smoke rises in plaits from the cigarette

    she holds,

Affecting what she once imagined an

    elegant stance,

Palm turned upward near her chin, her

    elbow folds

Neatly against her side. Yawning,

    entering, I catch the merest glance

Of shadows in her eyes, before she 

    turns, beaming, to kiss me, and to say,

"Good morning, Morning Glory," coffee

    pot in hand, her ghosts now safely 

    locked away.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Liquid Fish (Poem 345)

Liquid fish caroused.

Having plundered seaside towns,

most tourists ran.

Walking along hard wet sand,

our hands stroke poetry.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Tuscan (Poem 344)

In a large house 

("mansion" is gauche)

in a well-to-do suburb

(Why is it, we don't say 

rich or poor 

anymore?)

a brittle, woman 

starves herself

to skeletal proportions

(unconsciously aping

that which she abhors).

Her proficiency in shrinking 

is unrelated to any 

social dilemma or moral crisis. 

She does not feel stifled. 

She does not feel voiceless. 

She has never felt less-than,

or passed-by. Yet, slowly, 

she vanishes, eclipsed 

by furniture that  grows 

grander in scale, heavier

day by day: looming trunks, 

towers and pillars of rosewood. 

(As a casket, her writing desk 

would more than suffice.)

"Tuscan," she tells her friends,

drinking espresso with 

a paper-thin twist of lemon rind 

from tiny bird's egg tazze.

"It's so lush. I'm doing 

the entire house

in Tuscan."

(c) 2014, by hannah six

Daylight (Poem 343)

Daylight, light of day, daytime

combination of all sunlight

diffuse sky scattered 

across the terrestrial atmosphere

each day, Earth rotates,

and the sun shines on, 

indirect, considered

outdoors during daylight, 

sunlight reflected from 

objects in time (i.e., moonlight) 

is seldom considered 

while every side of 

daylight, daytime, sunlight

(even reflected, despite being 

indirect) is understood to occur

daytime, daylight, 

sunlight, light of day,

unimaginable, happens 

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Noontime (Poem 342)

Acres of bleached concrete,

Bleak under searing sun.

Noon, sidewalks shimmer.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Before Dawn (Poem 341)

Black dog barks and wails,

Fog wraiths moisten leaves and stones,

This hour before dawn.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Accord (Poem 340)

Perhaps enough has been said about agreement.

Entire conversations, like trees, have grown and bloomed, while adversaries circle each other, round-and-round the trunks, until

Autumn's fury flares. Each one crows and squawks about the merits of his own ideas as they trample the bright, crisp 

Carpet into dun-toned dust. Neither is willing to give; both are too happy to take. Mere agreement is, finally, insufficient.

 (c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Black Cat (Poem 339)

A black cat whispers,

Immaculate shadows swim,

This dream of blue twilight.

(c) by Hannah Six

(Photo: Kreuzschnabel via Wikimedia Commons)

Go, Fan, Kiss (Poem 338)

Go fan kiss plan ply bland

In fire love is health

A hurried plum mystery dove a pawn been sent

Say heart glove thumbing

Bit of sod he blushed to stay by trove sea

Your hope his rove tryst

Was all that bit of Brahmin story sure

Half sell that wit may hammer glad defends

For love thine own sir

Friendly sands wet trim finishes three

He was Iceland is solved with a rhyme

Can share tour river mend who pulled your room love drill knolls

Thick rolls shore steed.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

End of the Day (Poem 337)

At the end of the day, 

when the bare trees 

stand in silhouette 

against the gray sky, 

I look over my shoulder 

and see you 

wandering up to me. 

At the end of the day, 

when the sun is setting 

into a sparkling pool 

of rose and gold, 

I look to my right

and see you 

standing next to me.

At the end of the day, 

when a spray of stars 

is softly veiled by 

a thin layer of clouds, and 

the moon little more 

than a gathering glow 

at the edge of the horizon, 

I look ahead 

and see you 

patiently waiting for me.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

A Lily, No. 1 (Poem 336)

Adventitious and true,

a glorious success,

mysterious, reclusive, 

while snowflakes 

whisper to themselves, 

she comes into her own

when days grow long,

gaudy petals glazed 

with pale moon-glow.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Reply When (Poem 335)

Reply when 

the holiday is 

forgiven    when 

the loveliest 

rose tree has been 

memorized 

for miles    softly 

and secretly 

imagining 

a new history 

pirouetting 

on a wish

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Come Calling (Poem 334)

Three days of wonder
whatever happened to
that one day of lost

Amid the pine
barrens flat, featureless
quicksand danger afoot

Then two days, then here
begin years of next until
more or less come calling

As they always do, how
nightingales sing on
a wednesday
when listened to


(c) 2014, by Hannah Six