Cleaning (Day 467)

You name it, it hurts.

Cleaned my old home ‘til it shone.

Now, for the new one.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ArtsyBee/Pixabay

A Dreaming Sky (Day 466)

If the sky is a dreamer

what does that mean 

If the clouds are new

is this the same sky 

I used to look at 

the way children do  

the way I am  a dream 

the heavens are having   

gazing into the blue  

beyond which sailboats 

floated when I lay down  

decades ago  except 

those clouds are always 

coming and going 

without saying goodbye 

to one another   

The stars have had time for 

many dreams  So while I lay 

on my back  in the grass 

they are sleeping

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sebadelval/Pixabay

Surge (Day 465)

tidal sunset  surge of 

summer sherbet 

day’s redemption

set to the thrum 

of a billion tiny 

wings  magic alighting 

on a blade of grass  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Conversation (Day 464)

Slithering vines still.

A conversation begins.

Listening to stones.

Careless, current slows.  

Diffident flames stir cool air.

Smoke winds like sorrow.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap/Pixabay

Remembering (Day 463)

And this, and this, 

and yes, this, too 

will float before your 

closed eyes  fragile 

as a moth’s wing  

but strong enough 

to last a lifetime  even 

if you forget  the name 

of a thing  you will 

remember its texture  

and the weight of it 

in your hand.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Spring Tanka (Day 462)

Slowly, seasons rise.

Cicadas dream of flying.

Snapping Tulip flags.

Violets keep their own counsel.

Consider the unfallen rain. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Holding On (Day 461)

Raspberry Beret.

Twenty-six flights of stairs.

Over and over.

Old proverb tells us:

Youth is wasted on the young.

Thoughtlessly squandered.

How else could it be?

It’s painful, living, loving.

If we knew, would we?

Lovers, parents, pets,

Smooth skin, stamina, joints, minds—

We learn to let go.

Think how tragic death would be,

If we died still holding on.

(c) by Hannah Six

Different Perspective (Day 460)

listen 
to a different 

      perspective

barking

   ghetto voices

swearing 

   git th’ fuck inside

      at their children

no leashes  

      this is how they talk

few restraints

      to their children

   I SAID th’ FUCK 

   in th’ HOUSE

lunging 

   on a whim

plunging 

   their fangs

into your wrist 

   or the skin

delicate as a finch 

   wrapped 

or a sweet pea

   around your throat 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Packing Boxes (Day 459)

The things, the things...

Glasses from Long John Silver

which my grandmother saved 

for me

for decades

A doll I’ve had since she and I

wore the same size clothing

Art supplies I use

art supplies I don’t use and 

art supplies I may want to use 

again   someday

And 

   so

      many

          mugs

How they anchor us to the past

How they overwhelm the present

How they obscure what might be

And yet

Some things ask to be released

Others wait  patiently

for me to be ready to hold them

for me to be ready to release them 

for me to be ready 

   to move

       into an unburdened future

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

One long ‘Thank you’ (Day 458)

True love is really

one long 

      Thank you

it is giving up 

   your ego

           your rights

             your pride

and opening to 

   imagination

         vulnerability

         comfort

—a 10-year-old child 

sitting on a curb

conversing with 

a pale yellow dog

   befuddled

      devoted

         exposed

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: “If Nick Nolte were a dog...” 

by Christopher Michel via Wikimedia Commons

Cherry Trees (Day 457)

Earth sways  cavorts  

shakes loose from leafless 

cherry trees  a dozen brilliant 

blossoms  bouncing  nestling  

finally resting on deep green 

velvet ground  among a crowd 

of bluebells  bowing  nodding 

to the lingering day

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Like Shackles (Day 456)

Backing out of our considered 

indifference, like shackles 

increasing gelatinous fear, 

adrenaline clouds 

falling into place beneath 

a fanned-out inversion 

of raised hackles. 

What we observed 

made no sense, 

so we only took notes 

in our little books. 

What we noted made us 

howl and surge. 

Five storms descended 

and we preserved the fallen 

behind chemically-etched glass 

sheets for later observation, 

in case anyone should ask, 

in case anyone should remember.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Today Our Traitors... (Day 455)

today our traitors 

  confessed

and began to pack  eager 

  to do nothing 

  good  different  worrisome

they took virtually 

everything 

  they wanted

  their friends wanted  

spoke fickle praise  dramatically 

while the flames they fanned 

consumed 

  their illicit affairs 

all evidence disintegrated  

and now they are allowed

to leave  

  their names  their strict honor 

  intact  

to leave 

  this place  

  less improved than broken 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

The Empty Beach (Day 454)

You could sling a stone from the ranch 

and it would land in the sea, plunking,

tumbling to the bottom: a submarine 

garden of undulating anemones, 

slumbering in the sway 

of the afternoon tide,

where swift-gliding fish 

flashed silver in shafts of sunshine 

or in sweeping beams 

from the lighthouse late at night

You could sling a stone from the ranch 

and hit the sea—it was that close—

but why would we have 

done such a thing, when we could 

clamber down the cliffs, run 

the length of the empty beach, 

hide in the flat-bottomed cave, 

only to wander home hours later, 

taking pocketsful of fossilized mollusks, 

in exchange for the echoes of our voices, 

and two trails of fugitive footprints.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wendy Seltzer/Wikimedia Commons

Revolving Door (Day 453)

She craves 

the tonic of truth,

the flavor of 

cold canteloupe 

honey-sweet and 

slippery  sliced thin as 

mountain morning air 

She yearned 

to wander through 

the labyrinth of language  

to spin in and out 

of the revolving door 

between 

the Summer of Love’s

fizzing orange 

and unripe green 

and the cobalt blue

Reagan era’s satin  sequins 

and cheap gold plate 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Summer of lapsed attention (Day 452)

She cannot undo her summer 

of lapsed attention in exotic 

lands  sledding downhill and

drinking sparkling lime tinged

with juniper  a miraculous 

invisible line of “but” “yet” and 

“though” traces a path from 

forehead to willing heart  

without doubt  without abandon  

mingling with the bitter things 

that make her mouth hard 

to know  the slow travel of 

an ordinary life among the humid 

evening hours  She proceeds 

to talk strikingly about the shame 

of being unfathomable  suspended

on ribbons of blue smoke between 

her previous life and the next

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Cyprus (public domain)

Areas of Weakness (Day 451)

following you around 

laughing or playing

suffering needlessly 

in the middle   blue 

as fieldstone and long 

as a ride along to our

broken places  muddling 

our meaning because

they are neighborhood 

voices  agitated  come out 

to soak up asphalt heat

under a violet fence 

the kind movie cowboys 

ride along to check 

for areas of weakness 

in need of repair

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Black Cowboys
Negro State Fair, Bonham, TX 
c.1913 via Wikimedia Commons

In that other world (Day 450)

Opening this day

unwrapping it  so

green and soft and 

newly breathing

distractions away

in that other world

where hurry and

wanting took root

invasive  flourishing

like children did 

before the world took 

on a blue glare  floating 

on the surface  opening 

to the fire  the swish 

the bark and bite

and horror and grind 

of the day and the subtle 

way it lingers on your 

lips  a gentle touch 

of forgetfulness  let it 

always be like this

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Tommie Hansen/Flickr

(La Pelosa beach, Sardinia)

Spring Tanka (Day 449)

Deep, full breath of spring.

Windows thrown open at last.

Even the house sighs.

The peach blossoms assure me:

This is not a rehearsal.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: PxHere

Dear 46 (Day 448)

we are sorry 

to hand you

such tarnished keys

but hope 

you will find 

in the violence 

he engendered 

the havoc 

he wreaked 

a million or more 

opportunities 

for miracles

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Tom Thai/Flickr

Background Music (Day 447)

his well-bred tenor voice 

manages to be both 

decorous and ingratiating  

just a touch too loud  

  there’s really no need for 

  the fireplace when it’s so hot 

  except for ambience  

  they probably lit it on purpose 

  to sweat people into buying 

  more drinks   

now and then her eyes dart 

around to see if anyone is 

listening  but mostly she nods 

and smiles distractedly  

  look how gaily the sun is 

  beating down on the windows

  —isn’t it amusing? 

a wistful southern gentleness 

reminding you of background 

music at an elegant lawn party

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six