Loose Lips (Day 72)

Their slack mouths mutter.
As we know, spells cast witches.
Banks ooze evidence.

Mawkish fear casts a shadow.
Don't worry: Loose lips sink ships.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

All Wars (Day 71)

Photo: Bernard Gagnon

All wars waste time.

White waves pursue the plundered sand.

Settling, smoke drifts.

Long days of slick sidewalk talk.

Lovers doze and cafés wilt.

(c) by Hannah Six

Jealousy (Day 70)

Sinuous jealousy enters, 

Haughty and graceful,

Moving silently

On small orange paws.

I've been petting 

The other one again,

And that is, obviously,

Unacceptable.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Let Me (Day 69)

Let me
            help
                    hold
sing to             cry for
you
     know
    that the water I offer
will be soft
        cool
             quenching
     that the fire in my heart
will burn
    blue as lightning
                               as tears
music             bruises
will heal
      your heart
           when you lose
what         holds you      up
will
will not
       soften
            in unbreakable time
which will
      continue to pass
without
      feeling
            like a dream
you        will
                    outlast
this

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

***No human being is illegal.***

Image: Ojibwa village at Sault Ste. Marie in 1846, Paul Kane (1810-71)

This Moment (Day 68)

 

This moment 

was born 

strong, capable, 

    crisp as silk 

    or commitment, 

calling to mind

   a wide array 

   of delicate growth.

Heir to 

    every story 

    ever lived, 

to the ocean 

    of unfathomable time

    leading up to 

this instant—

senescent, now, fragile.

Please,

     hold it gently, 

          and with care.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image:

Hotarugari, Firefly Catching, by Mizuno Toshikata. 

Ukiyoe, Japanese woodblock print, 1891. 

On Another Day (Day 67)

 

^{Photo: Batsv, via Wikimedia Commons}

On another day,

I might have worried, but
The mockingbirds told me 

Today is a good day

To be careless,

To let the wind run
Its fingers through my hair,

To plant a dozen irises

Along the stone path,

And to look up, 

Into the midnight sky, 

Where a host
Of shimmering stars
Are consolation for
Even the darkest night

(c) 2015, by Hannah Six

Industrial Flat (Day 66)

He just sits there and reads
the newspaper in our industrial flat
up north. Outside our windows,
the neighborhood blends in
with the low, pewter sky
and the book of poems
I've been reading.

From where I sit, I see
flocks of flustered starlings,
yards of disintegrating trains,
and the memories of workers
who once stood in line,
coffee steaming from between
their parted lips, to punch in
at the time-clock downstairs.

(Said clock left intact in
what I often imagine as
an attempt at architectural irony).

Some of the memories are vulnerable,
some blocked or shocking, while others
are blue as sea glass. The clouds shift and
settle, exposing a sliver of bright sky,
like a sudden smile.

He puts down his paper and sighs.
I get up from my favorite chair,
cross to the gray tweed sofa,
and sit next to him.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Far as the eye can see (Day 65)

^{Photo: Laura A Macaluso, PhD}

supple, undulating 

highway, delicate fissured lace  

thrown hastily over shoulders 

that stretch from azure to indigo, 

far as the eye can see,

urging a wandering heart to dream 

of prairies and hares 

and homemade jam

beckoning the restless soul

follow me: siren song sherry-sweet 

on the back of the tongue 

follow me: warm as an old woolen 

blanket on an autumn evening 

follow me: every rose-quartz glance 

a flirtation, every breath 

steeped in stillness

follow

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Face of the Sun (Day 64)

Resplendent veiled light
I cannot go deeper into it
today the face of the sun
is lifting off  
heat crackling like paper
smooth as cream   and slow
as blackberry honey in
a cold cabinet
I cannot go deeper into it
those midnight murky caves
of greedy desire and
single-minded passion
devoured piece by piece
like grapes,
up amongst the white
marble columns glowing
rose-gold in a March sunset

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

They Decide (Day 63)

Tomorrow, They,
in their navy or gray wool,
Ivy-striped ties, and
butter-soft shoes,
They, whose salaries we pay,
will begin to decide
what we may have and
what we may not,
who will be treated and
who, be denied.
Tonight, my neighbors
and I wait to learn whether
we might thrive or, if sick,
go untreated—
and how easily
we might expect
to do so.
Their decision affects
our employees not at all;
we've guaranteed a lifetime
devoid of want or need,
with equal care extended
to their families.
This is how our public
servants will begin
to decide, and
we'll win or lose accordingly,
because we're American,
and we're free
to choose.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

The Lighthouse (Day 62)

 

Hand in hand they walked 

for miles, cellophane heat rippling 

in the middle distance. No shade, 

no shade, and it was hot there 

on the blacktop, where stillness 

settled between the pines growing 

within throwing distance 

of the shoulder. 

Their palms sweated, salt air 

passing from her to him, 

and back again, 

and, always, the lighthouse, 

somewhere off to the right, though

often out of view. His face 

reddened, her nose burnt, and 

they longed for water, and for 

the bicycles they earlier refused, 

as if they had forgotten how to ride. 

Perhaps, if they had practiced 

how to pedal and steer,

how to keep their balance,

they wouldn't have lost their way 

and become separated, 

he at one end of a long, sere road, 

she, all the way out here, at the other, 

neither able to put one foot in front 

of the other, to retrace the miles again.

The lighthouse is no longer 

on her right, but behind her, far 

enough behind that, though she 

sometimes strains to see,

she can barely discern its beacon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Where the Truth is Written (Day 61)

 

I can hardly see the trees anymore, let alone 

the forest, floor composed of fallen leaves,

a century's worth of organic debris, perhaps more
than I care to count anyway
you look at it, the truth is written in 

  the pattern of your missing hair, 

  the blue now faded from your eyes, 

  the spaces between the razor thin lines etched
    into the back of your hands,
  the rings you no longer wear
    on fingers so swollen from typing
    lies, that they no longer fit

your purpose now, as you can see,

is to reach the bold red X on the corner
of your map, where you imagine treasure awaits
discovery by a conquistador of your stature, you 

won't find contentment there, though,

the demise of longing, your old companion 

about whom you could elucidate, wax poetic,
compose sad songs while sipping wine
in a cafe, but no, we'd rather never hear 

some lonesome tale of martyrdom

embellished as it would surely come

from between your truth-parched lips.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

First Arrived (Day 60)

Taking in the South— 

an allusion to
when you first arrived,
carrying the weight 

of so many others, maybe

a little bit crazy.
Everyone thought 

our energy was funny.

What a refugee is: being 

a conqueror of the world,
not a dirty word.
Gathering on the patio 

in the cool aqua evenings, we
are such fighters and warriors now—
on the move, singing
like birds, a political idea 

we have come

to represent. You
are welcome to
take more than just one look.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Rustic Luxury (Day 59)

coastal meadows

—fertile with grasses 

and light like lace—

perfectly complimented 

by the softness of lovers 

who wait 

for the perfect dreams,

spun with luxury, 

and always 

just a little out of reach 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Brighter Than Azaleas (Day 58)

Brighter than azaleas, we
walk arm-in-arm, oiled
lips like plums, coconut
scented fingertips, young,
while on the radio, tuneless
bluebird time pursues
and tires us.
We, glimmering blankets
by the pool, cloudy, green
as absinthe, jade escapes
us, bridging then and now
like sky and sun
and sand heaped up
in dunes, the grasses laughed,
we laughed and wandered, too.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

The Places He Does Not Know (Day 57)

The places 

he does not know 

      are no less real for 

his incomprehension, 

but this will 

      not always be 

so, and I long 

      for that day 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Here We Are (Day 56)

So, here we are

—you, squinting into 

the sun. Can't be 

fixed, but it is 

hard that you would 

wander off, so far.

I'd just come up
for air, and known.
Of course, 

that was after 

we talked.
The heart I used to
listen with 

is broken, still

out for repair. 

Funny, how I believed 

I wasn't there, 

but somewhere borrowed, 

while I tried to
remember you 

would never leave.

(c) 2017, by Hannah 

The Thousand Cranes (Day 55)

She'd climb 

     the ancient 

          leaning hedges 

just 

to look 

at the thousand 

cranes 

     made of curious 

          gray paper 

(she'd been told 

they once were red, 

but grew so old 

that all their color 

     had bled out, staining 

          the dried leaves

          on the ground below 

               a dangerous pink).

Busily engaged, 

in discourse with her secrets,

she didn't hear 

     the quarter moon—

          who hated to interrupt—

until he whispered, 

a gentle breeze 

in her left ear, 

It's time, it's time. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Fascist Funk, as dictated to the poet (Day 54)

Heavy, sweet as sweat, smoke 

hangs, a shroud,

a cloud of doubt that gets in 

your eyes and makes them tear,

dissolving the regret 
of millions of voters 
whose debt will be 
paid in lives and in 
detention centers. 

I don't worry, too few of them 

to mention—gonna be great!—

not that it ever 
enters my mind. 

You see, me and my kind 

we're not weak, we 
revel in our money, and 
despise the drab and meek
—even in our homes—
dictator chic, some editor 
once called it. What? I like red 
walls and velvet, and 
polished gilded laminate, 

in which I can admire my pouf
—See? I've got a sense of humor!

This flowing mane is proof 

that I'm still young and growing 
younger by the day. I'd say 

there's few more virile than I, 

though I wouldn't say I'm vain, 

just well-adjusted. 
Success and power, 
smoke and mirrors, 

it doesn't matter how I got here— 

I deserve it! And you love it, 

even when you 

say no, 

especially when you say 

no.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Careless Spring (Day 53)

Plumage bright, birds preen

Plum blossoms awakening

Afternoons linger

Gentle golden glow

Striped puddles stain pine floorboards

Evenings sharp with chill

Dancing, careless spring

Tempting us with loveliness

Jealous, winter seethes

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

About the Ancient Mystery (Poem 52)

 

You believe no secrets 

can be kept about the ancient 

mystery: how all living bodies 

came forth from a supreme imagination—

from stones, to water, 

to a single, 

shimmering 

dream

—all here, among us, even 

in the unlikely moment 

when you felt the need 

to stop before a tree, 

and were unable 

to rid yourself 

of the idea 

that dissolved 

his freedom. 

Now, solidly rooted, he refuses 

to utter your accolades; but 

long after you've forgotten 

his silence, his blessing 

upon you will be renewed. 

You did not imprison him 

—he succombed to life, 

and then withdrew, 

to tend to 

your departure.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Inspired by a passage from Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust, whose prose is the purest of poetry.)

No (Day 51)

 

and then they 

say let me help you

and then they 

say yes they say yes  

yes   yes

and then they

say let me do more

just ask that's all

you have to do

yes they say yes

and then they 

learn the truth

that one

can only say yes

so many times before

the response begins

to be

no   soon always no 

they say 

no say no  no

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(The photo is my 'remix' of an original photo by Joe Shlabotnik via Wikimedia Commons)

Broken Alley (Day 50)

 

The difference is subtle, 

between 

what will 

and 

what won't 

go over, when 

a man walks his pit-bull 

down a broken alley, 

in plain view of 

the neighborhood's mothers, 

children, and cats. 

Between 

what can 

and 

what can't be 

unlocked 

with the mystery 

key found amongst 

the crumbs, paperclips, 

and earring-backs in 

his deceased grandmother's 

nightstand drawer. 

And, when that man dons 

his blinding white 

Nikes and a freshly-bleached 

'wifebeater', the difference 

between 

staying out all night 

and 

coming home 

at closing time 

will be very subtle, 

indeed.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Lonely From The Inside (Day 49)

The body knows 

lonely from the inside, 

bone deep:

ice-cold toes in the midst

of summer, 

or that odd gnawing 

hunger that comes on a few 

hours after Thanksgiving 

dinner. In the morning,

the body knows

it as a hollowness,

an echoing empty house

in which someone was 

supposed to have been 

living. On the outer rim

of sleep, the body knows

lonely so deep and all

consuming that, instead 

of reeling away in fright,

the two embrace, 

the feeling pulled up

and around like 

a comforter 

on a winter night. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Bird No. 1 (Day 48)

 

A signal 

        (like an invitation, or a warning)

or gesture 

        (of goodwill...or good Faith?)

involving the human 

        (because we all are)

hand's extended 

        (in generosity...or supplication?)

so-called middle 

        (we don't meet here as often as we used to)

finger—the others  

        (there is no Other)

are retracted,

        (pulled back, turned inward)

except the thumb, 

        (exceptions are the new rule)

which typically remains 

        (how do we decide?)

upright.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Firecrest, by Martin Vavřík

Side By Side (Day 47)

Side By Side

Side-by-side, each opening 

a door, they cross the threshold—

familiar, but unsurprisingly foreign. 

She talks without saying much.

Appearing to listen, he wordlessly 

nods and shakes his head, eyes 

fixed on an invisible horizon—

though not unpleasantly so.

He is tall. She wears a black 

wool pea coat. Over the years, 

they have come to resemble 

each other: hair disheveled, similar 

wire-rimmed glasses, the same 

brand of comfortable shoes.

One might easily imagine that they 
pass each other detective novels 

in bed; that he chooses the music; 

and, when they eat out, 

he finishes the food on her plate,

without asking. They cannot linger 

here, where tawdry is casual, and 

casual, elegant; where the big sky 

is purchased at the bargain rate 

of irreversible closure; where small 

thoughts appear to take up 

all the space in the world. 

So, they add milk to their coffee, 

stirring, tasting, and, as they step 

back into the murky afternoon, 

they say: Please, if we ever have to 

live in a place like this, just kill me,

instead. Their laughter is awkward.

Neither will admit to feeling

the dreaded heft of the ropes 

settling around their shoulders, 

even now.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Daisies & Newspapers (Day 46)

 

We fancied daisies 

and daily 

newspapers, 

unlocking 

their common patterns. 

We rustled 

vigorous characters, 

remembered 

the mellifluous middle 

passages of the mind—

most often 

convinced of nothing 

that was 

possible, 

but needing,

and hiraeth,

and need.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Love Bloomed (Day 45)

 

Like an eternal break of day,

Sun perpetually dawning—

Forever new—love bloomed.

Like the silencing, in an instant,

Of a tumbling sea, love 

Frightened and astonished me.

Like seeing the mystery of 

Every summer that ever 

Beguiled the earth, revealed 

In a single resplendent smile, 

It delighted and inspired me.

Everything we know will, 

Some day, come to an end. 

Even death will be unable 

To escape itself. Still, 

Throughout my life, as I grow 

Old and wise—and beyond 

Even the end of the end—

My enchanted heart will always 

Whisper the name of my one, 

My truest love.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note:

While you'd never know it, I want to acknowledge that "Love Bloomed" was inspired, in a roundabout way, by the following untranslated poem. (I speak only a few words of Spanish,
but love how Becquér's language affected the rhythm and pacing of my lines.)

AMOR ETERNO

Podrá nublarse el sol eternamente;

Podrá secarse en un instante el mar;

Podrá romperse el eje de la tierra

Como un débil cristal.

¡Todo sucederá!

Podrá la muerte

cubrirme con su fúnebre crespón;

pero jamás en mí podrá apagarse

la llama de tu amor

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Instead (Day 43)

Just now, I thought
There's not a lot
Going on inside
My head.

This realized,
I recognized
The fog within
And said:

I just can't write
A poem tonight,
So I wrote this
Instead.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


For information about ME/CFS, visit:
http://solvecfs.org/what-is-mecfs/
#MECFS #MillionsMissing

Late-Winter Storm (Day 42)

 

Late-Winter Storm

Clouds, flat as irons, and just as grey,

Topped with swirls of mist, smooth the pale sky,

Leaving behind the impression of a warm spring day.

Tomorrow's snow is palpable as a sigh,

Encouraging sap to stir and songbirds to nest.

I, listening in delight, deplore late winter's lie,

It's ineffable allure never fails to test

Those fragile hearts, who through resilience win—

In the end, when winter dies, they're summer-blessed.

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

The Best Way (Day 41)

Isn't this, she asked, the best way
     to get coffee stains out of
          a yellow-gingham curtain?

Isn't this the best way
     to make sure I get all those
          tiny chips of glass up off the floor?

Isn't this the best way
     to get to the hospital without
          having to drive on the freeway
               during rush hour?

Isn't this just like a man?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six