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

Pirate Samba (Poem 333)

Slippery, picky path

almost intoxicating

hard-driving pirate samba,

profane, fairly cloudy 

salacious material,

a bell-ringing distraction

diverting quintessential

ceremonial intersection 

of sugarcane and copper

cow bells

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Spring magic (Poem 332)

Bluebells  woods

Green filtered light

Spring's sweet magic

Clear cold nights

Secret blossoms

Presage fruit

Full and round

And ripe

Welcome (Poem 331)

One simple morning, 

mountain folding back 

a golden rose blanket 

from its shoulders, 

first gaudy sunrise 

biting at the heels 

of winter's dark rain. 

One simple song 

on the radio, swaying 

in rhythm with northbound 

tires, taillights a swathe of 

crimson sequins draped 

over the rippling highway. 

One simple day, love 

and light a glimmering cloak 

whose only opening 

allows the future to seep in, 

unannounced, anticipated, welcome...

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Foolish Turtle (Poem 330)

Foolish turtle,

   walking your solemn course

   to nowhere 

Peering skeptic,

   the process pleases 

   you best

Some swift, grinning tart

   drifting in your wake

   may try to pass, but 

You, puffed up and solemn,

   forgive the interlopers 

   in your quest 

   for a pickled beet and 

   a perfectly uneventful day

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

New (Poem 329)

Tumbling lines 

of curvaceous 

skyscrapers pushed

this way and that

by black patent 

leather reflecting 

the sky    bands of 

brass and grasses 

Norwegian pine and 

glass    blue steel 

sequins glinting 

in the sun    no corners 

no cornices no clay    

powder maize peach 

and mint    cool 

liquid Jordan almond 

candy poured 

sweet and creamy    

making every side 

the sunny side of the 

newly paved streets

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Katja (Poem 328)

Billows of white

silk    swirling 

underfoot

clouds caressing 

ankles    hands

smoothing 

benevolent mist 

moving 

silently   assured

of admiration

and contentment

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Search Wildly (Poem 327)

Search wildly 

    the spirited moon, 

consider the indigo sea.

You loved and were 

    clearly triumphant,

surprised by the pinch 

    of the years, 

fatigued by their 

    eccentric dance,

but brave to have 

    taken the chance.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Morning Sketch (Poem 326)

White paper, black ink,

Coffee in cherry-red mug,

Now, saved for always

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Imperfection is beautiful :)

The Lie (Poem 325)

Shaken by the idea of taking advantage, 

yet not enough to resist telling him what he 

wanted to hear, she knew the lie would remain, 

lightly folded and slightly threadbare 

from wear and tear, in her lingerie drawer 

for years. 

Who would not agree that happiness is more important than an engagement ring under your pale yellow, satin-encased pillow? 

On Sunday afternoon, at her mother's 

dinner, someone was asking questions.

Immediately, she gathered her cashmere 

coat and private concerns, tied a silk 

scarf around her neck, and said her

goodbyes. 

An hour afterwards, in a bleak, 

fifth-floor hallway, a certain detective presents a hawk-nosed investigator 

with the list of times and dates, then 

sits, tipped back in his arthritic 

desk-chair, and worries. 

The payments on the incandescent 

diamond ring--which he turns over and over 

in his right hand--are only half-finished, and their train will be departing 

(whether she's married or not) 

at half-past-six.

(c) by Hannah Six

One Last Explanation (Poem 324)

His car is new, the grass long 

and bright. They spread a blanket 

under the pines near the chapel, 

unwrap Italian hoagies from 

crackling white butcher paper, and 

eat together, apart. She is ambivalent, 

and finds his manner ingratiating, embarrassingly repentant. 

He hands her a brown paper napkin,

laughs too easily at her half-joking remarks, makes it clear he fears 

she's had enough. And he is right. 

His apologies are a decade overdue. 

The valley spreads broadly beyond 

the little ridge, a film of ocher dust 

tinting the air. His flattery makes her brittle and jumpy. So, when he offers 

his hand to help her up, she 

pretends not to notice, and when 

he allows his lower lip to tremble, 

she stands up, brushes off her jeans, 

and feels for her keys. Following her 

to her car, he subjects her to 

one last explanation, their final 

passage, ridiculous, entangled.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Hesitant (Poem 323)

Umbrellas of green 

shelter hesitant pink buds 

tricked into blooming

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Ovation (Poem 322)

Yet I glean 

tomorrow   tonight 

we'll lay in   

my dreamboat   

is not empty

for none will be 

mine   let's sup 

on orange anemone

and wanton red apple   

ovation I want you  

for my sake   I wrote 

in a poem end 

to end (more)   reach 

to the sky   promise 

peace

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Photo: USAF Senior Airman Joshua Strang (Wikimedia Commons 2006 Photo of the Year)

Bone (Poem 321)

Although he buried it raw 

hours ago, Dog looks at 

me with pity--I've forgotten, 

and will surely demur. 

He sits in front of the oven,

where a rather large

piece of cow is 

slowly roasting to a 

heart-breaking tenderness. 

You buried it, remember?

Looking down, I encounter 

a pitying pair of 

dark, doleful eyes. 

Of course, he will relish 

my gasp when, after

waiting all winter for 

the bone to cure, 

he pulls what looks like

a human femur--marbled 

with brown and oozing 

marrow--from the mud. 

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Marlene's World (Poem 320)

favored symbols, ancient, versatile--inspired by indigo-warm, 

weather-brushed conscience 

selection of boutique-sweet 

pacts--women giving hope 

under uncomfortable drawstring pasts 

thick with utopia 

short takes of observation 

experiencing varied thick-spirited 

elements, mixed with 

current alpaca-rich traditions 

of aromatic goats, and patronage

festive dream 

spirit of small beauty and organic 

changes in iconic

reclaimed-copper knitting 

feeling perfect

provides the utmost variety 

combining the texture of popped metals 

in gorgeous fusion

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Confection (Poem 319)

Strings of dancing 

fairy lights 

trailing dreams 

and wishes

through the trees

brighten this night

with memories

deliver the secret 

of a smile

of sunny mornings

and the sweetness 

of watermelon 

on my tongue

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

(Photo: BriYYZ via Wikimedia Commons)

Shadow Soldier (Poem 318)

Shadow soldier at the fete, 

dancing, teasing, I laugh 

at myself, only in time 

to capture one last glimpse 

Arm around my shoulders, in 

the company of night-masked 

revelers, he walks me into 

the frozen aqua dawn

We step off the path to kiss 

a bit awkwardly--in a patch of

winter berries like droplets 

of blood on the snow--while 

the others go on without us 

Later, alone on the fourth floor, 

amid stacks of dusty volumes 

in German and French, I remember 

His hand in my back pocket 

and the empty city streets 

and the garnet-strewn ground 

and decide I can work with this

Oh, my God, I was so much 

braver when I was young.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Junk Mail* (Poem 317)

We have recently learned that 

discreet housewives can't say 

goodbye to weight-loss experts;

that hot Chinese girls never 

complete auto repairs or 

trick local Jewish singles;

and that the president waived 

the sexy visions of beautiful 

married women. 

But, what if technology could

restore youthful hair? 

You could already be longer, 

harder, stronger, more... You 

still have time to change 

your perfect panty, 

sell your timeshare, or browse 

profiles of love through faith. 

This 10-second holiday could prevent your heart attack.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

*Once again, thank you, spammers, for providing such bountiful material and inspiration!

The Ashamed (Poem 316)

How do the feverish ashamed

--cheeks prickling, eyes 

glowing and glazed--hide the 

gritty heft of their skeleton keys? 

How do they silence the jangling 

in their pockets that reminds them 

of the rusty-hinged doors they 

closed, of the dark, still passages 

leading there?

How do they capture and 

quiet the trilling flock 

of musical nights and diner days? 

How shade the vivid fury 

of diamonds and daydreams? 

In what gilded cages do they 

display the aging hearts' desires 

and unborn loyalties that would, 

otherwise, fall into a jagged V 

and disappear 

into the southern night?

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Tsunami (Poem 314)

Long before it 

arrives

freight-train rumble 

bearing down

prairie storm inking 

out the horizon

tidal wave of

gunmetal thunderheads 

steamrolling creases 

from hills that glow

eerily in the half-light

claw all you want 

at the cliff's face

they say

this tsunami will break

and you will 

be overwhelmed, 

crumpled and finally

swept out to sea

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Pointillist (Poem 313)

Tuesday 

plastic food 

premiered park

bicycle bag fashion 

giant jazz butcher 

controlled trellis plane

prison beggars address

exam cactus calculators

aerial satin sparrow 

remote widow 

cream panther fur

(c) 2014 by Hannah Six

Luxe, Calme et Volupté ("Luxury, Calm and Pleasure") by Henri Matisse, 1904. Oil on canvas, 98 x 118.5 cm. Musée d'Orsay, Paris. 

Look Up (Poem 312)

Odious afternoon that 

precedes the ominous 

night, the gentle tug 

of the clear water lapping 

at your toes. Why not look 

up, scan the horizon? 

The living sand, wet 

beneath your feet, begins 

to suck at your ankles.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Attica Road (Poem 312)

High tomorrow 

we found plum 

magical you can fear 

her   you need air

then give her more 

cashmere and deal 

me in Friday

on Attica Road

Be still child of time   

morning will soon be 

the cat's ears are up

in the moon on his May

night time musical habit  

on Attica road

A bad heart can choke 

you   high on a totem

or color coordinated 

pool bar hotel

fearless magical naked

job left back standing

out in a bay 

on Attica Road

His empty tomorrow

a kiss a bow sing

to her   know for

a year or 

more   merry 

pair wrapped 

in a blanket 

on Attica Road 

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Banshee (Poem 311)

In northern realms 

grim woman keens 

and cries   lamenting 

twilight souls through 

whose lips murmurings 

of last hopes 

and lost loves 

passed in a whispering 

sigh   how dreadful 

to round the muddy

pathway's bend

and find her 

kneeling over the run

--dark and cold as 

the North Sea--

draped in mist   hands

raw and flaming red

scrubbing blood 

from the clothes 

of your dead

even as they grow cold

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Photo: Shaun Ferguson 

(via Wikimedia Commons)

Who? (Poem 310)

Who 

can I say 

goodbye to 

after 

the barrel 

bursts? When 

my mouth is empty 

of names, whose 

pain should I 

lament? 

When the dull ache 

of iron flattens 

the wind-creased 

February night, 

who 

can I cry for, whose 

shattered fragments 

should I gather in 

my thin nylon skirt, whose 

shards glue together 

in my vain efforts 

to reconstruct 

a hard-lost life? 

When galaxies weep, 

and the very stars, 

like shimmering shrapnel, 

rain down 

on peaceful dreams, 

on furtive love, 

on heated words 

that cannot be 

recalled, 

who

tell me

who

can I say 

goodbye to?

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Azaz, Syria 

(Photo: Scott Bob, VoA News, via Wiki Commons)

Winter White (Poem 309)

Like piped icing, swirls

of snow edge all the eaves

in town, the trees, and each 

wrought iron fence. The swing 

sets sparkle now; the trails,

the slopes are fresh, the

very streets pristine; and

the sacred mountain, always

she wears winter

white, like swathes of sweet

angora brushed to a fizz 

of mist by gales, winds,

each breeze, belying the 

bone-deep freeze that sears 

within her hardened heart, 

where she wears winter

white, September, 

March, and May--no slave 

to fashion, she 

prefers the shade 

of innocence year-round. 

Meringue, whipped cream, 

the color of a prairie storm, 

a pristine pearl, a sun-soaked 

beach where warm, clear 

water kisses sand aglow 

under a brilliant moon--

so round, so full of midnight 

dreams, and she 

wears winter white.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Bonfire (Poem 308)

Broken spires and 

shards of flames 

crack open the door 

to dreaming worlds

All around, woods 

are stained with inky 

swathes, whisper 

     their prayers

as night unfurls

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

Hummingbird (Poem 307)

Floating in the sky, hovering 

in the water, blinded by 

veil upon veil of iridescent 

azure, cerulean, indigo;

Earth's steady breath tilts 

the elements, and I sink

into the rhythm, the soothing 

rise and sway, so that, 

when a thrumming current 

unzips the silence, my heart

dives deep and I rise,

ears prickling, expecting 

something dangerous, 

something swarming, or 

stinging--not this 

sun-struck gem buoyed by 

the strata of afternoon heat,

hurrying from honeysuckle 

to pine on a mission 

of utmost importance.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

First Crocus (Poem 306)

Before the advancing army,

a single scout crouches

under the gaunt maple

and tests the air

surreptitiously, 

wary of dangers and

inclement weather, 

carrying the mystery of

the ages, heart silently 

opening to the possibility 

of grace.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

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