At the End of the Pier (Day 194)

Sitting at the end of the pier, 

you and I shared a coke, 

our feet dangling in midair. 

We inhaled the faint mist rising 

from the water, which flowed 

with the tide, left-to-right, below us, 

and imagined boats drifting past, 

carrying people we glimpsed 

on the news, people without 

homes, some running from, some 

running toward. Then, we fell silent, 

as children do, who, like refugees, 

carry little sense of power, helpless 

in the face of pain and despair, 

never realizing that we, hands tied, 

offered more than the entire city behind 

us—hearts in our hands, ready to give 

or to take, as the situation required. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Alcatraz Sunrise, by Tony Webster

Difficile (Day 193)

threats (like red threads)

are frequent (text alerts)

and difficult (of hearing)

to identify (with)

and even (out)

to comprehend (one’s own existence)

among (a city of strangers)

the broad spectrum (gray-scale)

of intruders (in the night) 

stealing (tip-toeing about)

confidential (you know, that movie?)

information (freedom of…act)

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Buy This One, Zanzibar, by Rod Waddington

Faithful Sky (Day 192)

Faithful sky, waiting,

Unconditionally blue,

For the clouds to pass.

I always believed in you.

No storm can last forever.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: A "hole-punch cloud" (or Fallstreak Hole), by H Raab

Lilacs, Vineyard (Day 191)

If everyone listened to lilacs, 

the way she did that 

spring, the world would be 

light as a butterfly, balanced 

on a spiraling tendril in a 

honey-tinted vineyard. 

In the distance, bells tolled 

the hours, rolling over swelling 

hills in round, velvety tones. 

One day, as she leaned 

close to hear their whispered 

secrets, plump purple cluster 

filling her palm, a page of 

wasp’s nest paper alighted on 

her fingertips. The lilacs trembled

while she read, then hung 

their heads and sighed to see her, 

careful and straight, make her way 

across the upturned field, 

toward an aproned woman 

waiting, screen-door balanced 

against one puissant hip.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Valeria Boltneva

Hibiscus Evening (Day 190)

Like the ruby hibiscus, 

hoarding sunlight, 

the evening sky furls. 

Petals laden with rain, 

it curls in on itself, 

and the birds fall silent. 

We wait for that first drop, 

the burst that follows, 

sending spray through our 

window screens and 

faithful fans, always running. 

An almost-August storm, 

borne in on a southern wind 

from down the valley, 

not mountain-split this time. 

We’ll witness the full brunt 

of its clamor and crashing 

downpours, feet up 

on the porch railing, leaning 

into each other, knowing 

only in our bones how it was 

when February paused here, 

shook herself, and filled 

our narrow street with snow.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Andrew Dunn

A Rather Angry Rant (Day 189)

Fair warning: This poem is neither lovely nor politically correct. Because today, I am giving myself permission to speak bluntly. That's one of the benefits of—for now—not being held to the standard of objectivity.

A Rather Angry Rant

And we sit, 

and we watch

while they take,

and expect us

to give them 

so much 

for the sake

of a law 

that doesn’t

protect us all.

Build a wall?

Ban those souls

over there?

You don’t care.

It’s not freedom

or justice

it’s the same 

old prejudice, 

and we, 

the majority, care 

for democracy.

Your wall is 

just smoke,

and your ban 

is a joke, like 

your klannish

reactions to

progressive actions.

We’ll win 

in the end

and rather 

than bend, 

you’ll break, and 

we’ll sweep up 

the shards of 

your sorry ass,

and dump you in

the compost heap

with the rest 

of the trash 

you keep company 

with. Then we—

the brave 

and the free— 

will get back 

to the task 

of erasing 

your legacy 

of cruelty, 

besmirching 

your name for 

all history.

You’re rotten

to the bone,

and you will

end alone and

forgotten.

We’ll see to it

you steaming

clumps of...

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Brocken Inaglory

How Summer Wanders (Day 188)

Evening sank, then, 

when we understood 

how summer wanders. 

Then, when the world 

seemed to flutter 

like plum blossoms 

under April’s spell. 

I thought as much—

I remember, too, 

when the shards 

of frozen days 

pierced our hearts; 

you, silently dismayed. 

Soon, in a different light, 

when summer has been 

well-staged, we may amble 

along the sleeping shore, 

mid-day tide rushing in. 

This will happen. 

And we’ll feast on 

the orchards’ spoils, when 

all is sweet-dripping nectar, 

and dozy, humming bees. 

The size of that night sky, 

laced so finely with stars, 

delicate as lichen patterns 

on an ancient stone wall.

You can take me now, 

if you like, into this sinking 

evening, before it is gone. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Inspired by "Ich Denke Dein" by JW von Goethe (Untranslated version)

Photo: North of Slaidburn, Donald Judge

Underwater Refuge (Day 187)

Underwater refuge

Afternoon light filtered by shades

Slow fan ripples the air

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Afternoon Tea, Charles Bittinger, 1912

Spoons (Day 186)

Be careful how you spend them:

Too many in the morning will 

upend your day. Summer’s 

brilliant sunlight will come 

streaming through your 

windows, find you 

where you hide, 

and set your pale skin 

aglow, inside, there in your

bed. Your plans all scattered 

to the wind, because you needed 

rest instead. Once again, you gave 

them all away, far too early In the day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six 

(The Spoon Theory is a way to describe myalgic encephalomyelitis [ME], fibromyalgia [FMS], multiple sclerosis [MS] and other ‘fatiguing’ [major understatement, there] autoimmune diseases. Read about it here.)

Image: FaceGuard via Pixabay

When I Think of You (Day 185)

When I think of you

I see myself   

stretched out 

   under the same sun

in the same field   glowing 

golden just like you 

and when I look up 

my sky is also blue 

   how strange 

      we are   believing 

it’s true   that just because

   we’re far away 

      from each other

we aren’t the same though 

   when you look in a mirror, 

   when you think of me 

       you will see 

                     yourself

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: No, that’s not a photo of the midwestern US! 

It’s a beautiful field in Azerbaijan.

Original photo: Havin_HP 

We Did It All Wrong (Day 184)

We did it all wrong,

but we didn't mean to.

You, shoes squealing 

sharply, sliding, 

reaching, saving

the day, captured 

in black and white

like a song. 

Later, the whiteness 
of my arms against 
the darkness of 

your skin astonished me

and you—the moon 

turned us a glowing 

twilight shade of blue. 

We danced, sweet 

and slow, and you left 

your ring on my table,

so I’d think of you, 

and I did, 

and I do, you see? 

But that was all then, 

and we did it 
all wrong, didn’t we?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: I was unable to figure out to whom this lovely image should be attributed. Please leave me a comment if you know.

Puddle (Day 183)

Lift up 

a corner of 

that puddle 

right there 

and tell me 

what you see

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Torbakhopper

Can We Fight (Day 182)

How, how can we fight 

against figments of 

the night, creations 

of a disturbed lack 

of imagination—

every direction a knife, 

a noose, a fiery pit?

How can we live, 

banging up against 

thick-swarming lies, 

when everywhere, 

the buzzing, biting 

flies struggle to believe 

him more? Almost 

imperceptibly, the door 

is closing, and we—

we with our buckets and 

green garden hoses, are 

fighting a storming sun.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Gorgeous image of a 7/14/17 solar flare and coronal mass ejection: NASA (more here)

A Current Stirs (Day 181)

Sinuous eels flutter.

A current stirs, 

their solemn eyes peer.

Slim darting fish meld 

like sequins with sunlight, 

flashing through 

the dimpled swells.

Bemused, they swarm 

—angels swooping

toward vengeance, 

astonishing and fast.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Detail of painting by Raphael (public domain)

The Key (Day 180)

The key: Poverty destroys 

sirens, rejects the fluttering,

alluring solutions that 

gyrate, sometimes tediously,

among the more voracious 

fishes in the great freshwater 

aquarium of problem solvers. 

It clips the wings of simple 

answers and do-gooders, and 

blasts Babylonian policymakers

with the furnace breath of

ten thousand dragons, until,

trembling bodaciously, they 

slip backward into plentitude, 

wash the dirt from their hands,

and heave the sanctimonious 

sighs of martyrs and lesser saints.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Amartya Mandal

Abuelita, June 2017 (Day 179)

We crossed the border in

a rusted Falcon, on a wheel 

that was starting to go flat. 

A fountain of dust spouted 

behind us, tinting the sky  

terra-cotta where the sun shone,

Powdering our car, skin, food 

with an ancient, ubiquitous grit,

metallic on our tongues, like blood.

Whenever we passed another 

car, truck, any sign of civilization, 

she ducked and covered herself. 

Before the stark mountains, a plain, 

monotony interrupted here and there 

by run-down, sun-broken signs. 

We drove through darkness, wide 

open to the desert air, vibrating

under a million spinning galaxies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Rennett Stowe