Grain of Sand (Day 133)

 

I dreamt I 

was a grain 

of sand 

in a hand 

holding on 

too tightly and 

woke

tumbling into 

the dunes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Original image source unknown)

Who Knows? (Day 132)

 

Who knows if the lilacs bloom, still, 

underneath my childhood window, 

or if that glass itself remains in place?

Who knows if the fossils fall like rocks 

onto the beach from the face of 

the sandstone cliffs, shells closed 

around their ancient secrets?

I am not so very old—not old at all, 

in fact—but the world that I grew up in

is long gone.

And sometimes when I think of it, I mourn 

the loss of silence, and the world 

I live in now, well, I mourn for this one too, 

maybe more so.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

What You Do [with ME] (Day 131)

Violet-tailed Sylph, by Michael Woodruff

You read and you listen,

to old books and new podcasts;

you need something different.

You rely on the radio,

for company and staying in touch;

the best are weekend shows.

When it's rainy and gray

you don't mind like you once did

it breaks up the sunny days

You long for the forests

and hiking on steep rocky trails—

but still have the dawn chorus.

You strive to slow down,

it is harder than it sounds;

life goes on all around.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


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Dawn Haiku (Day 130)

Photo: UltimatePhoenix

Finches run errands

In grass, sun-warmed rabbit rests

Languidly, dawn spreads

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

They Talk Backwards (Day 129)

Photo courtesy US Government 

they talk backwards and upside 

down in an underwater way 

that makes wind chimes shiver 

and sends a chill down our spines

so shameful we shrink from 

their lack of embarrassment 

is arrogance the same 

as confidence do you think

dear world please don't hate 

all of us we pray but we know 

that their spilled ink has 

stained our fingers too 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

A Lemon Falls (Day 128)

A lemon falls.

My grandmother boils it.

A cougar waits out the heat.

She came to me in a dream.

Mine or hers I don't know.

Waterfalls and lemons fall.

Grandma rolls the hot lemon 

with the heel of her hand.

Under a tree in the cool dust.

She squeezes the warm juice 

and pulp into a coffee cup.

Water falls from pointed leaves 

high up in the eucalyptus trees.

After adding honey she settles 

herself on the edge of my bed.

The drops sound like footsteps. 

She feeds me the lemon syrup

a few tablespoons at a time.

At midday the baking dust 

smells faintly of pine resin.

Then she sets the cup on my 

nightstand and lays her cool 

dry hand against my forehead.

Fog shapes pass like quiet people 

outside our lace-curtained windows.

Her smile is like the rising sun.

It soothes me.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

In the Window (Day 127)

Fifteen minutes and a gnawing hunger 

turned me inappropriately toward 

the local donut store where in college 

before we avoided sugar and fat 

I used to go with my roommate 

for Sunday morning debriefings and 

perhaps one of us arrived once 

or twice in a black dress and high heels 

with a sinuous swagger no one called

the walk of shame even if it was 

pretty lame to sit in the window across from 

your groundbreaking computer engineer 

roommate who spent her evening building 

things you still don't understand while 

you flirted in vain and looked sexy 

in your fuck-me shoes which her mother 

would have killed her for wearing 

not that she ever considered it being 

far more practical than you and therefore 

not majoring in Victorian Poetry.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

PS. Roommate is often in one's thoughts, and one wishes her much joy.

Labor Away (Day 126)

 

We labor away 

at our own 

vain remembrances, 

loathe to release 

the wild efforts 

of our dreams, 

to regain what little 

ground we may have 

lost, or to capture 

more in preparation 

for a shortage

in the hidden and

untrustworthy future. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Grand Lady (Day 125)

 

Abandoned House, Hagerstown MD

Never a grand lady,

Like those northern upstarts. 

You were even, perhaps, 

A bit careworn, compared 

With your neighbors, whose 

Fresh red confidence eclipsed 

Your plain-Jane simplicity. 

Or was your appearance 

Purposely misleading? 

You might have jealously 

Guarded the golden joy pulsing 

In your veins, familiar warmth 

Radiating comfortably 

To the scrolled tip of each 

finely-turned bone. Glimpses

Of your elegant strength,

Your faultless honesty, 

Your unwavering generosity 

—Visible only to those who 

Knew you, or who thought to look 

Beyond the customary trimmings—

Gifts you bestowed intimately,

Their secrecy lending them 

A covetable air of pricelessness.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Two Haiku, Two Senryu (Day 124)

Photo: Marabuchi

Birds versus squirrels 

Locked in eternal battle 

Sharing the same tree

***

Rabbit stretches tall

Craning his neck to nibble

Sweet, young poppy leaves

***

Friday: hot humid

Saturday: sweater weather

Mid-Atlantic May

***

Chic woman with scarf

Insouciantly knotted

matches her flowers

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Shore Town (Day 123)

Photo: Cape May, NJ, by Hannah Six

Summer surprised the pretty shore

Rustling like tumbled velvet

Filling cottages, roads, and sand

Crowding up the little station

After breakfast, tourists appeared,

Dutifully marching beachward,

Arms filled with coolers and bright towels,

Claiming the same spots every morning.

The sun climbed higher in the sky,

Parents and children chafed,

Arms full, they soon retreated inland,

Dripping ice cream on the sidewalks.

Late afternoon, clean and revived,

They emerged again to eat

Booking restaurants and filling up bars,

Then going to bed early and watching TV.

After a week of sun and sand,

Growing restless and bored,

They paid their inn bills and headed home,

Leaving behind old receipts and brochures.

The siege continued for three long months,

Leaving the whole town weak,

As summer ended they sighed with relief,

And closed up most of the kitschy boutiques.

Soon, winter enveloped the pretty shore, 

Windy, bitter, and cold.

The people wrapped up in their woolen coats

And rejoiced in their empty beach.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Cold Feet, Warm... (Day 122)

Wash that dirty fleece,

And card those dark gray locks,

Spin it in the grease,

And knit me some wool socks.

I like my socks long, 

With cables all around,

Make sure the heel's strong,

And that the toes are sound.

Well, she washed that wool,

And spun up every bit,
Then she let his feet grow cold

Until he begged to learn to knit.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Idle Fumes (Day 121)

Photo: B137 via Wikimedia Commons

cars idle fumes rise 

like steam 

parking lot black with sun 

hazy overhead   

cashier said we're due 

for storms when it gets this warm 

and wind circles like a half-blind 

shark in shallow water 

waves of exhaust_ion swell

building underfoot 

like melting tar 

but no 

that's the slow freight 

graffitied cars oily 

reverberating through 

the kudzu

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sad Story (Day 120)

When you say you say nothing 
new in all the best words under 

the sun blazing down like 
the wrath of that golden calf 
you pray to shimmering 
around your head 

a corona of mistruths disinformation 

fake news words we seem 

to have made up especially 

for you are a fox in the henhouse 

 which explains why 

feathers are finally flying 

away far away as fast as you can 

run away from home to some exotic 

land where a lovely girl will bury 

your head in the sand 

they'll hide you and never let 

us find 

you go 

home

and someday when you 

are dead and gone south 

people will sing songs 

about you and your gang 

like that one about DB Cooper 

who hijacked and jumped out 
of a plane only we all thought 
that story was really pretty cool 
he became a folk hero 

but no one is rooting for you

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Hopeful Tanka (Day 119)

Feathered choristers pray.

Short notes whirl above the flutes.

The shining wings beat.

A temple of new leaves swings.

Hope gathers on the horizon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sweet photo by Frank Schulenburg, "House Finch (Haemorhous mexicanus) with an Oregon Junco in Strawberry, California"

Words Fail (Day 118)

Some days the words fail
You refusing to come home
Leaving the Muse alone
With silence
Like a barren page



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Unsophisticated Intruder (Day 117)

Unsophisticated intruder, 

breaking into and erasing 

our news, our truth, our

wallets, our daughters' date

rapes, rolling around in 

delicate systems and files,

shedding lies like dead skin—

Your dirty dreams are 

responsible for limitless 

unplugged devices, editing 

the free out of range, 

riding your black-hatted 

disorganization into endangered, 

broad-spectrum communities, 

a never-has-been directing 

Grade A insecurity, helter-skelter,

at the [inter]national level.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Unstoppable (Day 116)

Cicada husks 

obscured the walkway 

an exoskeletal patina 

pecan-dark and crunchy 

Howling she stomped out 

the pointless icons 

unstoppable as 

a howling December flood 

Behind mullioned windows 

the family's lesser matron 

pausing in the middle of her tea 

pronounced:

Hoarding words in a notebook 

is not the same as preparing 

for an inevitable future

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

How We Talk Now (Day 115)

(Travel Journal Page, Laura Mandelbaum)

How we talk now 

text now thoughts through 

hands thumbs screen 

like pen on paper 

no midnight scent of ink

or glide of gold nib soft 

as caramel on a slick  

old-fashioned journal page

we can write in bed 

or on the train or in the car or 

simply speak 

our stories lives letters

poetry on the page 

in our own voices 

different voices careless 

boisterous silly strong   

tongue fingers thumbs 

an accent different from 

the gentle rolling 

hybrid print and cursive

that I used to write 

my father's mother like 

notes dashed off to mine 

now love dispatched 

post haste with 

a few taps of my thumbs

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six