The Weekend Shows (Day 347)

cold toes in wool socks feet

sweating inside slippers that 

clearly aren’t doing their job   

comforting weight of the cat 

spread across my lap from 

knee to thigh folded and 

draped from side to side like 

a sun-warmed blanket 

knitting needles making a trim 

clicking sound when the tips 

graze and nubbly yarn turning

into fabric as it slips through 

my fingers   spicy floral tea 

growing lukewarm in a pottery 

mug painted by a mystery artist 

in an intricate pattern of blue 

flowers and green leaves that 

remind me the world will not

always remain frigid and gray

conversation on the radio in calm 

public-broadcasting voices so 

familiar they are almost like friends

—the ones I saw every day when 

I lived and worked in a city I loved—

though since That Man took office 

I’ve had to bar even NPR from 

my house during the work-week

because they never stop talking 

about him for an instant from 

Monday to Friday dwelling on 

the most bitter upsetting news

and in that way they aren’t really 

like my old friends at all

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: From Radio World magazine, 1923

via Wikimedia Commons

A story worth telling (Day 346)

This woman is reading 

aloud 

to her children,

after working a 10-hour day.

This woman is a warrior.

She is on a mission of

wisdom, knowing deep in her 

battered and dazzling soul,

that there’s no better way 

to teach them 

about the world, about

how to stand up and

how speak out, 

how to engage 

how to help and

how to fight for 

what they know 

is right, and 

how to know 

what is right. 

“Imagine,” she says to them, 

without saying the words.

“Imagine how all of our 

voices coming together 

could lift us up, and 

break us out. Now 

that will be a story

worth telling.”

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: “In the end...” by Doug Youvan

This is how history works (Day 345)

This is how history works.

Disgusting, irresponsible 

requests that start to sound 

strange to your ear, 

after the fourth

or fourteenth 

or forty-thousandth time

you hear them repeated.

Men and women, reading

aloud from storybooks,

not reading what needs

to be read, deciding 

things best left undecided 

by anyone but God 

(or whatever you prefer 

to call the great Mystery),

such as, “When does life start?”

or “What is the meaning of art?”

There are no set boundaries,

no term limits on genius,

where literature,

or music, or architecture 

are concerned.

Imagine, then, the absurdity

of government, among a people

unwilling to lift up 

their voices to demand justice 

for their neighbors, 

their friends, 

their fellow citizens.

Look: They cannot figure out

how to feel about a painting 

of a Campbell’s Soup can,

or Crayola’s new crayon colors, 

or whether Disco should have died.

That is how history works:

It is a beautiful and flawed

choose-your-own-adventure 

tale, and we must find a way 

to decide.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Campbell’s Soup Cans (1962), by Andy Warhol

via Wikimedia Commons

Hygge Tanka (Day 344)

On windows, frost blooms

Steam unravels from damp wool

Fire sighs and settles

Melting daylight drips like gold

Silent as cats, drafts slink in

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Clean and muddy fingers (Day 343)

 

The sky fell upon them, 

sodden underbelly 

a vast, gray filet,

the sea darkening to slate,

churning waters flecked

with saline spittle.

She was in the garden,

kneeling on the grass

with her shears, gathering summer 

into a broad, petal-shaped basket,

which, in colder months,

would serve to carry kindling.

In bloom now: hydrangeas,

lush scoops of periwinkle 

and, her favorite, pink 

the exact shade 

of strawberry ice cream,

bushes sagging, heavy heads 

nodding under their burden.

He stepped through the gate

just as the clouds let go, 

releasing a torrential

exhalation of wind and water,

drenching the turbid world 

in an instant.

Three steps—he was at her side, 

reaching simultaneously for her 

and for the basket’s grip.

Their wet hands met, clean 

and muddy fingers intertwined,

As she rose, squinting at him 

through sheets of rain, smiling,

iron-gray licks of hair 

glued to her cheeks, 

each raindrop seemed to pause, 

silent, suspended.

And he realized that, to him, 

she had never looked more vibrant, 

more beautiful. Joy curled 

and swelled in his veins.

Then, with a whoop of exhilaration,

she took off running, 

toward the house.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Making art (Day 342)

Making lingering art

a public dream 

of dark bars and 

coffeeshops

sleeping ghosts and 

mystical gifts. 

The fine raw 

humming energy 

arising from 

the work itself 

rewarding 

the fatal selfishness 

of creating  

of giving  

and the unexpectedly 

selfless grace 

of taking 

time and energy 

to receive 

the finished work. 

Without the one

the other would fail.

Without the other

the one would 

never have been.  

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pot Pourri, 1897 (oil on canvas) 

by Herbert James Draper; private collection

via Wikimedia Commons

No Reason (Day 341)

When she feels unnecessary,

no reason for the oatmeal 

steaming in her bowl at breakfast, 

each plump blueberry, reclining 

in the gore of its own purple juices 

reminding her of the uselessness 

she senses under the thick cover 

of her life, the way her cat senses 

her feet beneath the quilts when

she climbs into bed, pouncing 

exactly where her unmoving toes 

are hidden, his sharp claws 

drawing tiny specks of blood that 

dry and darken on her pale skin. 

She knows it’s silly, allowing the cat 

to continue his nightly, slightly 

sadistic ritual, but when bedtime 

arrives, she does not chide him, 

because the game brings him joy, 

and this she feels, without actually 

thinking the words, makes her 

necessary, gives her reason enough 

to set her alarm for the next morning.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Silent Night (Day 340)

Treacherous, 

the pavement 

    sparkles 

    in the crackling dark,

a kaleidoscope 

             of colored lights

fracturing the silent night,

all is calm, 

           and all is bright,

and peace 

is rising with 

the moon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Lean over me, December (Day 339)

Oh, lean over me, December.

Please don’t suggest that

I remember some red Friday

night, deceiving undeserving

friends and feeling my hands 

burn, while he replaced 

the warm with cold, 

the gold with brass. 

Lean over me, December,

let me slide right past you, 

straight to January. Nothing lasts 

forever if, unwilling to regret or 

let lay things best left unsaid—

one speaks those words 

I never spoke, and which 

I’d just as soon forget.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Anestiev

Sugar Plum (Day 338)

Swirling leaves 

of doubt 

arise on swooping 

winds, smudging 

the watery view,

opalescent 

through tear-stained 

windows.

Pale as an oyster, 

hope, 

once forgotten, 

reclaims her spotlight’s 

warmth, her rightful 

mark on that

austere stage  

dusted with rosin, 

scuffed and scarred by 

the fluttering wings 

of a thousand 

pink satin butterflies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Tomas Castelazo

Is Beauty (Day 337)

Stars on sapphire sky, 

bouyant origami boats,

folded from paper money

—is beauty desire?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Blue Tide, Bruce Anderson 

(University of Stellenbosch)

A cloud, a wave (Day 336)

A cloud   a wave

           an inhalation   supported 

by turbulent uprisings 

  roiling   

        amassing   

drawing the horizon 

    up 

in its grand designs   

strength 

   lending strength   fury 

feeding fury

unfolding

unbending

              poised 

on the breathless   edge

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Peter Gill/UK

How I Am (Day 335)

Among the only sounds in this cool, wide lobby: 

elevators humming a hydraulic lullabye, 

doors shushing the few people waiting to emerge, 

to enter, to go up, to go home.

Silk forsythia, white noise, acoustic music—barely

discernable, gently distracting, insulating, building 

walls where there are only doors, windows where 

there are only empty spaces between museum prints 

and mirrors.

People don’t look at each other, here. 

We discreetly avert our eyes or, when pressed, 

serve up wan, unfocused smiles to those unfamiliar 

with our unwritten rules of non-engagement.

Below a bright EXIT sign, a door swings open.

A dark-haired, middle-aged man scans the room, 

sees me, smiles. 

We climb two flights of stairs (he likes to stretch 

his legs now and then, and knows I don’t mind), 

arriving in a hallway notable only for its red carpeting 

patterned with gold and black.

In his office, we sit, make settling noises, appreciate 

the crisp fall day. Then: “How’ve you been?” he asks,

eyes glinting with good humor and his greatest gift—

his superpower—an honest desire to know, 

to listen, 

to me telling him 

how I am.

The world is full of brilliant people who choose to spend their lives 

helping others. I am so grateful for them.

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Stalk (Day 334)

here  so delicately 

breaking that bright green

tendril  the interloper  

stalks swagging thick  

swarming over branches left 

sweating in water-air  dribbling 

into depths of dromedary 

bliss  learn deeply 

to kiss this odd laughing 

fountain  look back like catfish 

after dark  learning that neither 

crickets nor fireflies glow 

here  so delicately 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: GSmith via Wikimedia Commons