What Teachers Earn (Day 437)

My thoughts shift, recapturing 

Home. You were scat singing 

by an open window, saying Oops! 

whenever a song veered off in 

an arbitrary direction, 

or your thoughts wandered 

down the darkened street where 

I lingered among a scattering 

of streetlight puddles.

Hearing the neighbors whispering 

in their beds, I learned that 

our teachers earned less 

than the pale, sweaty man 

who managed the dollar-store, 

and considered bursting 

into tears at the brutal, repetitive 

nature of injustice. 

This is what we like: 

Holding hostage those who hold 

all of our knowledge, because 

they are too dangerous to trust

—except with our children’s minds 

and our own vivid future.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: tookapic/Pixabay

Pointillist II (Day 436)

Breathe hush wind beach fog 

Petal cup hand abundant kiss

Slice green point edge damp

Electric shiver ice steel frost

Marine slough clear shimmer curl 

Breath flow gurgle chime rocks

Bird floral bittersweet wing dust

Knowing warmth wait send tucked

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Patterns of the superbloom 

at Carrizo Plain National Monument 

Bureau of Land Management/ Flickr

A Simple Matter (Day 435)

I am told 

  it’s a simple matter 

      to grow old.

To grow old but 

   to want 

      to look

  a certain way

  at younger men

  and be looked at in return.

To want to look 

  at photos

    of people who are alive

      not at the dead ends

      of my long-lost friends.

I feel too big 

  to become so small. 

I feel too hard 

  to become so soft,

too young 

  to become invisible

yet.

I am assured 

that even if 

I am alone   which I expect 

I will be    since you left me

that   

there will be 

some charity or other

  to drop in on me 

    as I knit socks by the window.

But that isn’t 

how I want it 

to be.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Vincent van Gogh, Scheveningen Woman Knitting, watercolor on paper

The greenness of yesterday’s grass (Day 434)

They fantasized 

about resting 

on ancient oceans’ 

sticky surfaces,

about finding a path 

their feet would recognize 

as the way home.   

Among the fortunate few 

who could forget 

the greenness 

of yesterday’s grass, 

in the end, for this 

privilege, they were met 

with disdain, scorned 

and rebuffed, but 

they remained hopeful and 

taught their children 

to swirl through the world 

having vast adventures, 

voyages of possibility, 

and when they encountered 

their own ripples, 

swelling like waves 

to wash them 

clean away, without a trace, 

they knew that choosing 

this deafening moment 

is everything.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Martie Swart/Flickr

Hesitance (Day 433)

A repression 

of frilly hesitance

velvety fields 

of yes 

when no 

was intended

weep for the generous

fence rails 

from which 

many a comfort 

was upended and fell 

to Earth in a heap 

of sanctioned

confusion.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: SimpleInsomnia/Flickr

Bridge (Day 432)

Bridge of no burdens. 

Leaf-green light, bright with warblers.

Beneath, clear stream flows.

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: Bergadder/Pixabay

In the Second Place (Day 431)

...in the first place, she said 

to the window, the violet desert 

night, her flushed face mirrored 

back in a reflection, where their 

eyes met. And, in the second, 

you don’t even know who I am. 

A swell of annoyance, or maybe 

it was boredom, lifted her off 

her feet for a few seconds, and 

suddenly, she could see herself 

from outside, from out there where 

stormclouds of stars piled up on 

the horizon, where a hot wind 

sipped sweat from your skin so 

quickly you never felt a prickle, 

where that silvery road unwound 

like a mystery, northward, over 

a series of rocky hills.

Outside, where the scrub brush 

met the drive, two glowing green 

eyes appeared like magic. They 

seemed to be looking directly at 

her, shimmering in rising waves of 

ambient heat. She gazed back, 

momentarily unaware of the man 

waiting for her to further explain 

herself. The green eyes blinked 

once, twice—then vanished as 

she stepped out into the evening

closing the door firmly behind her.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: fancycrave1/Pixabay

Have You Ever (Day 430)

Have you ever come home exhausted from a trip 

to the grocery store right before Thanksgiving, 

having fought crowds of last-minute shoppers 

and carried in bag after bag of ingredients for

the feast—and dropped the bag of flour you just

bought to make pie crusts? The whoompf when 

it lands, the explosion of powder that covers 

everything and hangs in the air for hours so, 
as soon as you finish cleaning, every surface is 
once more covered in a white film that turns to 
glue when it comes in contact with water...?

You are that everlasting cloud.

Have you ever stumbled into the kitchen to make 

coffee at some ungodly hour, barely able to see, 

only to find a damp mass of yesterday’s grounds 

fermenting in the brewing basket? Wrinkling your 

nose at the oddly ashtray-like odor as you upend 

the filter into the trash, you manage to miss the bag 

entirely. Fine grains of wet coffee scatter, bead-like,

onto your bare feet and the kitchen floor, finding 

the most arbitrary and unreachable hiding spots, 

and crunching underfoot for days...?

You are those day-old grounds.

Have you ever invited a friend to dinner at your 
new home, freshly decorated in airy shades of cream 
and white, shown him to your favorite Italian-leather 
chair, handed him a glass of pinot noir, and watched 
in horror as he spilled it? He offered to pay all of the 
cleaning bills, but you graciously refused and, when 
he returned for another soirée, he exclaimed about 
how everything looked as good as new! (Because, you 
did not say, it is.). Once again, he relaxed into his seat, 
and once more his blood-red wine landed with a 
sickening splat on your white wool carpet, thin purple 
veins trickling down the buttery sides of your chair.
Have you gritted your teeth, reassured him, replaced 
your chair and carpet again—and then invited that 
same careless friend back to your pristine home for 
another evening of wine and cheese? No?

Well, my friend, neither have I. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: roegger/Pixabay

Words Hit the Paper (Day 429)

The words hit the page differently when 

the light enters my room from the east   

letters tumble and scatter  landing as they 

may in heaps and clusters  later in the day 

I will find an hour or two  when I can linger 

and hold them  gaze fixed softly on an image 

in the middle distance  fingers folding and 

coaxing the rambunctious disarray until 

a gentle thrill of recognition wakes me to a 

poem  now revealed in its inevitable form

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Unknown miniaturist, The Monk Eadwine (c 1150),

 illustration on parchment, Trinity College, University of Cambridge

This Inert Drama (Day 428)

This inert drama—

gentle 

winds freeze 

you in place, warm 

on the tender petals

of your eyelids, closed,

face tilted toward the sun.  

Still, from within, 

ancestors urge you now

to run 

from that resentment 

while it sleeps. 

Smart, wiry dogs 

rush to their owners, 

joy crackling underfoot 

like ice in April.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: ulleo/Pixabayu

She Wished to Arrive... (Day 427)

she wished to arrive 

before the others 

disappeared 

into a neighboring party

this had happened

why when one is in a rush 

does every road 

suddenly burst 

into garlands of traffic

interrupted only 

by red lights and 

drowsy lumbering busses

that evening it seemed 

all those wide empty highways 

had suddenly shrunk 

down to two lanes 

simply in order to delay her 

arrival

stepping into the room 

she was momentarily disoriented

as if she had just jumped 

into a deep hot bath

anyone who sensed her 

anxiety perhaps assumed it 

explained her unusually

perfunctory handshakes and 

neutral cheek-busses

which had always been quite lavish 

as she understood it 

should be among friends

anyone who sensed her

would know just why she was

there and what strange

primal instinct

had drawn her 

like a fluttering summer insect

to a porch light at dusk

she closed her wide lips 

around an olive 

and chewed like a man 

on a thought 

that would normally have 

made all the difference 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

In memory of Sue Grafton, whose mystery novels I’ve 

so enjoyed, and whose words inspired it.

No poem. Just an honest letter about my dog.

I am too upset to write a poem. So I’m just going to write. And hope I don’t regret it tomorrow.

The next door neighbor’s dog attacked my dog.

She is OK, just injured. A miracle, considering the other dog is a “Pit” known to be vicious. She saved her daddy’s life (and HE most definitely saved hers).

This is a bad neighborhood, with a lot of crime. Not the kind of place where I spent my life, but since I got sick with ME/CFS, and live on SSDI, this was all I could afford.

It’s not worth it, though. 

Living here is not safe for our spirits, let alone our bodies. I don’t want any of us to live here any more, and will eat 99-cent ramen if nevessary to make that change happen. 

For tonight, though, the dog and her dad are safe and sleeping. And I am laying here, trying not to think about the suffering neighbor-dog, injured during the “prying off” process, whose owner refused to take him to the vet. 

Trying not to think about how the police and animal welfare officers refused to respond to the scene because it is snowing.

Trying to feel safe, and not sad about how shitty life feels right now. Trying to quell a feeling of helpless rage. And to resign myself to dealing with this until we are able to leave.

Finally, reminding myself of the few neighbors on the block who reached out to help by calling the cops, running over with a pry-bar of some sort, and asking, later, how Lucky is doing. The world isn’t all bad.

A terrible photo of beautiful Lucky

Up Three Flights (Day 425)

Sandals landing on wooden 

steps like flat palms 

on drums  she runs up three 

flights and knocks back

humid air  thick 

with the scent 

of undergrowth  sweet 

and dark as late-summer 

midnight sweat on clean 

sheets  thinly sliced 

coral from a corner streetlight 

falling through bamboo shades 

across the bed  and his head 

less peaceful  less quiet 

than she knew  on the pillow 

for now anyway  a place to rest 

her mind when the present 

feels too sharp  because 

understanding is worth 

the effort  but you don’t always 

have to do it in the dark

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Edited image found on Pexels

All Those Beautiful Places (Day 424)

I was there when 

that small warm bundle 

called life dangled limply 

in your arms a load of laundry 

bound for the line or a chilly 

expression of reticence on 

a face once generous 

as grandma’s whipped-cream 

fudge and fresh-from-the-garden 

berries served sunwarm with 

our breakfast every morning 

the artist doesn’t tell she shows
and deserves a snap of the fingers 
for all those beautiful places 

where magically even when 

there is no peace

there is still love

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Infidel Savior (Day 423)

Poverty givers rise cavorting clambering over masses who collapse and fall scythes whipping through spring blossoms like sharp beaks strip off soft bark exposing insects hiding underneath 

Their highest blunders oozes siren words poison to disparate pens unsheaths and sinks his fleet sword’s blade in to the hilt and twists like death on a swinging rope lips curled in a vulpine sneer

Infidel savior poverty giver tilting his resilient hate at guiltless guileless dreamers unaware of his voracious plague growing fierce on their unspoken fears and silent sleepless nights 

That brilliant terror festers under victims’ thin-stretched skin while his beknighted demons stroke and savor fevered brows drooling for a payoff drunk on inbound self-branded hell

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

You Say (Day 422)

You say no

more are coming

In the near future

we will see

You’re not finished

chewing, spitting

But you can’t make

red out of blue

No matter how

you rearrange things

One man only

speaks in lies

Millions more 

will bear the cost

Only one man

knows the truth

Losing side won,

but, winning, lost.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: US Dept. of Homeland Security/

Wikimedia Commons