Hope hitched a ride (Day 255)

Looking back  laughing

hope hitched a ride 

with you  when I 

flew away  meaning 

to stay  a missing piece 

of the puzzle  

we played alone  instead 

of side by side

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Charly_7777

All That (Day 254)

He shouldn’t undo all 

the trees, hears loons 

downstream, calling 

to his imagination, 

shallow beginnings in 

the leaves’ gilded edges. 

It was the hottest 

year he’d known, 

like Hell’s south side, 

none of the geese 

have flown, but that’s 

fake news. Like back 

when we cried for more 

butter on our bread, 

they couldn’t hear us. 

Our lives were just too 

small for all that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Nomeato

Those Pigeons (Day 253)

Change is somewhere 

unsuspected, in 

the flyover, appearing 

after years of show 

and tell, free love,

and Disney World, 

and doves, 

and sugarcoated tears.

The truth is closer 

to the pigeons living out 

their fervent dreams 

on Main St., USA,

yet not as cruel 

as politics, or weddings, 

puppies, fitful starts, 

or sweet and shallow 

broken hearts. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Deror_avi

Not to be Trusted (Day 252)

The fog of fellowship blurs every

hairline crack and fissure webbing 

the heart’s candy shell—proving, 

yet again, that feelings are amoebic 

in nature, and not to be trusted. 

Like liquor, they peel your throat 

and leave behind a burning uprising 

of shame. Even you, accountable to 

no one, will answer for your aimless 

laxity sooner or later, leaving us 

awash in your purple velour humility.

But we will not be brainwashed by 

the wine you pour, that ancestor of 

greatness whispers truths in our ears, 

even in public, we are the good guys

And we always win.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bhakti2

Stanislaus, 1970 (Day 251)

violent spring snowmelt

the river abducts those it wants

to its silent gravel bed

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: (c) 2005, Dick James

http://www.byways.org

Deplorable Old Men* (Day 250)

And now they’re saying             He is a racist.

Those guys, you know               How much money they make?

If I made that much money        I’d be thanking god every day. 

But these guys just want            To protest this and that.

Right, and he is the only            One who isn’t scared to say it.

Those guys make so much         Money.

You know what I say                  I say: You don't like America? 

You should get the hell out         Go to another country.                 

But what country                        Would want them?

(What country, indeed?) 

*A minimally edited/annotated conversation from rural America.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo of Kremlin: Francisco 

Gingko (Day 249)

Xanthous gingko quilt

Fetid swathe of silken fans

Unfurled overnight

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TeamGrayDuck

Harvest Time (Day 248)

Some gathering 

pilgrims set forth 

in pairs, gathering baskets

and woolen clothes like clouds, 

departing at the edge 

of night, the moon’s high 

spirits straighten the road 

before them, winding 

around their ankles like 

a hungry cat. Impractical 

brimstone singes 

falling apples as they land,

purifying the blushing skins

of summer’s gritty haze.

Harvest time, the farm-stand days

glow like boys in love, 

newly bright, buoyant. Once 

clumsy, landing heavily on their 

youth, this tapered light 

now liquifies, they preen 

and joust. Love rises unfairly, 

comfortable lies settle in 

heavy folds where frozen 

stars swarm overhead. 

Blue sadness maintains 

silence among the lost, 

their easy brilliance cracking, 

snapping loudly under the burden

of too-soon hardened hearts.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: UK National Archives (public domain)

From the Left (Day 247)

Today slanted  golden  from the left 

throwing shade 

       on the world  unseen 

since yesterday   one step closer 

to completely abolished 

to silence 

to the barely audible 

hiss of snowfall and wind 

       like blades of blue 

           steel cutting deeply 

where sap surges and tingles 

soon turning 

crimson and flame   pushing life 

upward  throwing verdant foliage into 

relief  knowing that after 

the fall 

    the winter 

        the spring 

dazzling  two steps forward  to the right  

again  almost before it begins.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: tzevena

The Noun’s Rosy Glow (Day 246)

In the noun’s rosy glow,

legs stretched out 

in front of me, adjective 

minnows kissing my toes

under the cool gaze

of a tribe of water-spiders,

I lean back into the warmth

of an adverb, the one 

I’d been eyeing since 

we arrived almost 

a week ago. Bill Z. tells me

I shouldn’t run with such

a fast crowd, but I disagree. 

How would he know

of the pillowy comfort 

of the passive tense,

he who never dangled

with a participle in his life?

No, give me my sparkling

modifiers, my lazy verbs,

and I’ll leave the prickly

bits to him, standard-bearer

of brevity, killer of favorites,

unquestionable conqueror

of loquaciousness. 

In honor of William K Zinsser

to whom I promise to revise and edit this poem 

when (if?) the 1462 days end.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Lyrical, Verse 1 (Day 245)

Gate in the wall 

left ajar

on a dare 

Hidden garden 

overgrown 

they met there 

Birds were nesting 

butterflies 

filled the air 

He sang to her 

in the language 

they shared 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public domain

Happy Endings (Day 244)

tragic fiction, happy endings:

flying away 

to some extended-stay hotel 

in some guy’s magic land   

where partly sunny ruins the day

the world is cruel business, see? 

sometimes this strikes me funny 

like laughing at a funeral, death 

do us part

happy few go on forever as 

they start, those poor nine-lives cats 

and breeding bunnies, whose tales 

aren't much worth 

    writing about

        what I don't want to be 

            interested in what I think 

I'm trying to get at, to know, is the truth: 

life just feels more real when 

you drink your coffee from a broken cup, 

when dawn wakes up 

to greet you—you—

with the cold dew on your toes

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: aingnamma 

One Shakes (Day 243)

one shakes off 

the droplets of pewter sky and

the dog-damp air settling in cracks and

the iridescent fairy dust of adolescent longing

because now 

powder puff snowbanks have given way

to faded crevasses   shade-flooded and 

rimmed with quicksilver

how is one to live 

when golden lines of poison goose-step 

down boulevards of half-remembered dreams?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain

155th Anniversary (Day 242)

Fallen stories gather 

Looming suddenly through vast fog

Buried in verdant fields

Words and image of Antietam National Battlefield, (c) 2017 by Hannah Six

That Is (Day 241)

That is 

Not 

The one 

This 

Is not the day 

It’s not 

The way 

It seems 

Colored 

By dreams 

That kept you 

Up all night 

The brakes 

So slightly giving 

You 

Careening 

Down a hill 

Slow 

Slow me 

Down 

Turn 

Me around this 

Is not 

The ride 

I bought 

No 

But in the end 

It is 

The only ride 

I got

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Axel Hammer

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 

as well as 

sit  a pale egg 

unhatched 

the poison slurry 

fills the cracks

appalling  we are 

spit-and-polish 

egos  where a small 

few head 

he goes all in  

they follow even unto

silver-plated truth he 

traded in 

exchange for 

long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Shape of Sleeping (Day 239)

shape of sleeping human being 

soft warm curves and bones

conform to flat hard concrete  mind 

likely dreaming  imagine  suitcases

rolling luggage wall  odd aimless 

walkers  hair ragged  eyes glazed 

like nothing can help believe 

what lies this narrow kind of town 

tells  a patched stone wall  wobbly 

one-lane street  the bridge is slow 

quiet place for sleeping under

baby-blue blanket  to lay down and 

rest now  once night cold and dark 

falls under there safe is conditional

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Mariamichelle

I Tell You No (Day 238)

Because I tell you no, I tell you yes. 

You only have to guess to see me smile. 

Once in a long while, you might let me down. 

I’ll come around again, though if you wait. 

Too late is not the same as yesterday. 

And now the birds have flocked, and now have flown. 

The days have grown so short, and cold, and gray. 

You say I told you no, but I said yes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Pixabay

Autumnal Indulgence, ca. 1985 (Day 237)

Beneath bunting 

   leaves of wine 

      and gold

air warm with autumn

light 

      we walked together

hands clasped

      we sailed glistening 

black highways 

to the sea 

   and back

       before you 

explained

in the gray dawn

       before you 

decided 

I should 

       know

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: wikimedia