Bah! (Day 316)

How tiresome to be saying 

Merry Christmas again

when it should so obviously 

be June. Since late October, 

all the stores have been playing 

their jingly-jolly songs, 

shoppers humming along 

tunelessly, as they pause

to consider the merit 

of a bellydancing houseplant 

or battery-operated mittens. 

You don’t have to choose, 

on the spot these days. 

The good news is: 

You can buy that retro, 80s

neon sweater, just like the ones 

everyone hated in the 80s, 

even after you go home.

The joys of the season are 

upon us, and there’s always 

a reason to celebrate 

the people you love—as well 

as those you dislike, but 

are forced to buy gifts for by 

your boss or your spouse—with 

a mall-kiosk brie that not even

a mouse would find tempting.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Benh Lieu Song

Last Star (Day 315)

Daybreak comes

erasing 

the last stars,

except Mars, 

who lingers,

like winter 

on the high 

northern plains.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Winter Cafe (Day 314)

The table where we used to sit is empty, 

bare but for a handful of citrus-hued leaves, 

uncomfortable chairs that never supported 

our backs or, frankly, our behinds, have been 

turned upside down, stacked one on the other 

and chained together like escaped convicts 

in an old movie--in it together until they are 

killed, recaptured, or freed by a stranger 

with an axe. You may have noticed, I am not 

being terribly romantic. There were days when 

seeing our favorite place this desolate would 

have depressed me. Perhaps, I would think 

of a simile, about how the sidewalk cafe was 

like our life together, unloved, abandoned, 

or some such. But today, looking at the bereft, 

rain-spattered tables, feeling the damp chill 

creep from the sidewalk into my toes, I think 

only this: I am different now. And I am glad.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via Pixabay

World Like a Cat Toy (Day 313)

Sometimes the world 

feels like a cat’s toy, 

a little blue-green ball, 

new, shiny, frantically 

spun about for a while, 

then batted under the bed 

and soon forgotten. 

For weeks, months, or (yes), 

even years, the toy remains 

inert in dust-laden darkness.

But, on a far-off moving day, 

someone may find it, 

pick it up, and say, 

“Hey, remember this?” 

Then, once again, the little ball 

will enjoy more light and 

find renewed favor, and be 

maniacally spun about, until 

it is batted under the bed again.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Moritz320

Exurban Christmas (Day 312)

The aisles are all full 

to bursting, floor to ceiling, 

side to side, the walkways, 

like arteries, narrowed 

by excess, and yet 

just a few bags in hand.

A whole lot of something, or 

a whole lot of nothing—

it barely matters in this 

tumbledown, blue-collar town, 

where the aisles are all full 

to bursting, but there’s little 
worth buying these days.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

He Cannot Pronounce Her Name (Day 311)

Unsayable, a scree of consonants

piled up at the base, he cannot

pronounce her name. Love, dear,

darling, forever come simply and

easily as sugar in coffee, 

the way she fixes it for him 

in the morning while he showers, 

rinsing off the night’s dreams, 

that dark oily scent clinging 

to the steam, making his mouth 

water like it does when he wants

 to kiss her unglossed lips 

the way they are in the morning 

when she wakes up, rosy 

and puffy with sleep, warm 

as a winter fire after a midnight walk 

on new snow, when the world 

glows bright as a full moon, 

and the drifts shimmer, casually

heaped against the fences,

already pitted, collapsing 
like those consonants at the end 
of her name, which he cannot, 
could never, pronounce.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Skeeze via Pixabay

His Rendezvous (Day 310)

In the end he was quickly granted his 

rendezvous   saying little   connecting among 

the ghosts of school-room conversations after 

his charade of rochambo crushed the bodies 

of those children with their knowing eyes.

Little by little we begin to break ranks   

mothers unable to restrain us with the old 

dreams we left behind in their wombs   

fingering our superstitious thoughts like prayer 

beads and furrowing our brows when we realize 

none of our messages have been opened   

none received. 

And yet many linger in the hard winter sun

waiting to see   knowing that men such as 

these always do themselves in by 

murdering what they have already won 

during a time when they believe they haven’t.

Note: This poem was inspired by a few random lines

of The Complete Essays, by Michel de Montaigne, 

which I chopped, scrambled, and tinkered with for

an enjoyable hour or two.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image based on a photo by Gage Skidmore

Thanksgiving Day, West End (Day 309)

Stillness played

my favorite song in 

the back yard today. 

Neighbors gone 

to family dinners,

the empty street 

was clear and clean.

No cigarette smoke

   sickened the air,

no voices rose, shrill 

   with anger or abuse, 

no car horns tore the quiet 

   morning (instead of  

   using doorbells),

no heavy fists battered 

   locked doors (instead

   of knocking),

no pans of food were left 

   to burn, neglected 

   or forgotten on the stove.

Today, fate simply graced us

with effortless, easy silence.

And for that, I was grateful.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Too easy to blame (Day 308)

It would be 

too easy 

to blame this 

discontent 

on long-necked bottles 

and midnight rivers 

dusted with 

pollen and stars, 

too simple 

to make up 

excuses for 

the dwindling daylight 

and interminable 

weekend afternoons. 

Better by far

to face each hour 

boldly until 

one 

   by 

      one 

they slink back 

into their bespoke containers

so you can say 

fuck it 

and get on with things.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Tiger (Day 307)

Some days it stalks me

spit-snarling tiger 

   treading water 

on which my boat balances 

   precariously 

longing breeds longing

longing like a thundering 

sand-storm   

grit plunders my tongue 

my teeth longing for 

the barely-detectable crunch 

of white buttercream icing 

   you can keep your garish 

   blue roses

the splashing ceases

in the silence something 

   submerged

noses the thin hull 

below my feet

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: cuzitwasgood 

Conscious Planet (Day 306)

raw and ugly   sawed blankly through 

the black green hillside of tumbledown 

trees presaging landslides to come   

slipping and slumming down on every 

gambler who packs his ivory-colored heart 

on the back of a public flirtation or 

a private-jet barter for a smallish blue planet 

careening through emptiness without 

a driver   its liquid center sloshing and 

splashing like a fringe-festival flask in 

the governor’s pocket   tender and aquatic   

fragile and pliant   she will rise to her full 

height one day and exact her molten revenge

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Jim D Griggs, US Geological Survey 

3: Them (Day 305)

Feel the lush 

    garden 

of completion 

underfoot   dazzling 

flowers strive toward 

a raspberry evening

arms open wide 

to give 

    and 

       to receive

balance 

is a song you sing   

a delicate

     delightful thing 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019

2: Her (Day 304)

Rising from 

the maelstrom  grim 

and gray  hurling itself

on shattered shores 

beneath a sky ripped

wide open  clouds

torn asunder by wind

gone astray  she finds 

her shallow footing 

firm   unfurls 

apple-blossom wings. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: DimitriSvetsikas1969

1: Him (Day 303)

Snowflakes fall like coins 

from a lurid coral sky. 

Left out in the cold, 

he chases them, 

grasps at the shattered air. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019 via Pixabay

One of Me (Day 302)

There is one of me

and one of me and none

of the other  an empty chamber

where sound and light are

deadened  the way they are

when leaves fall and pile up

in rusty old heaps  like shredded 

paper turning to dust in the gutters

or when the trolley stops running 

because the tracks lay beneath 

a blanket of snow  spread smooth 

and white as buttercream  surface 

excruciatingly unmarred  irresistible 

except  instead of two lines 

of footprints  there are only mine  

and only mine and none 

of the other in the empty space 

to my right  from where only 

the purest light glistens 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

A dream is... (Day 301)

A dream is a question, 

a lock, with thousands of keys 

A key is a dreamer of doors, 

a gentle-eyed carpenter, willing 

to feed your cat if you have 

to leave before he does

A door is its own kind 

of small death, a sacrifice 

on the altar

where the heart is

Death is a welcome 

mat, next to which is 

a basket with a little sign saying: 

Please take off your shoes 

before entering.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: BloggerStefan

Trail of Crumbs (Day 300)

We sliced the days 

thin as fluttering kite tails, 

savored every hour, and, 

in case we lost ourselves 

along the way, we left 

a trail of crumbs, remnants 

of a life that love consumed,

to guide us home 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration for Hansel and Gretel by Alexander Zick (1845–1907)

Unbroken (Day 299)

imagine

having a heart

that had never been

broken

or a spirit

that had known

only joy

the topography

of a life 

like that   

unmarred by yearning

unchanging   unearned

a bleak and  

featureless expanse

as far as the eye could see

like awakening

yawning and stretching  

into a nightmare

of eternal ennui

from a dream

rich with longing

and love

and loss

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay