A Little Campfire Story (Day 620)

At the bottom of a day’s adventures, 

our flashlight beams lit the undersides

of arching redwood branches, beneath

which we spread our sleeping bags and 

hid our stash of books. 

Well after the moon had set, something 

woke us—a sound, a grunt, a baby’s cry, 

a strangled little moan from the friend

shivering beside me. 

Peeking toward the campfire, I saw only 

an absence of light, a gaping, bear-shaped 

hole. I shushed my friend. We needed to 

remain silent, completely still. And so,

we did, until our silence led us back into 

the landscapes of our dreams. 

Years later, and—aside from a tie-cord 

ripped from the foot of my sleeping bag, 

and a handful of ursine tracks, both 

large and small, that night, like all good 

nights, has retained its mysteries—and I 

wouldn’t have had it any other way.  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Missing (Day 619)

but    used to love    and 

now    lay empty 

on hard sand  useless  

a nautilus shell

abandoned by the tide

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Take off your shoes (Day 618)

Take off your shoes

Notice tiny paw prints

   in fresh mounds of snow

Sing a forgotten song

   joyously  amidst the drifting 

   silence

Listen to cool streams 

   of words: smooth pebbles 

   carried toward the sea

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ben Seidelman/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

They want to tell (Day 617)

realize 

how clearly     hear

how they want 

to tell     a story  

  about their sorrow 

    and the hardships 

they faced  feeling 

through albums 

  myriad moments  

    complicated movements  

they flew all that way  

  simply to cherish a type 

of sadness     

a beautiful dance  simple  

straightforward 

as the moon

are      willing to stay up 

until dawn  expressive 

  hands gesturing 

    full-out 

to convey a meaning 

which     may be willing 

  to acknowledge  

    because it is true

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: US Library of Congress

Some Years (Day 616)

Some years   lush autumn 

plunges into winter   rattling 

like a hollow chest

yet longing for succor from 

roseate spring’s titillating 

poetry   tumbling streams of 

language and cavorting syntax

drawn to the earthy fragrance 

of life-affirming decay 

for months the vague sour

drench and crunch 

coat a drab wooly world 

approaching   unknowingly   

a seasonal crossroads 

and thirsting for light   until 

winter   finally satiated   seceeds

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Gwen and James Anderson 

Signposts at crossroads, Slap o' The Gask  

CC BY-SA 2.0

The pea-green coat (Day 615)

From a doorway, he watches, neither thinking nor without thought, as she moves quietly, unobtrusively, almost invisibly, through a midday crowd, pocketbook clutched in the crook of her left elbow, right hand free to carry the day’s purchases. Hanging limply from her sharp shoulders, the hem of her pea-green coat sways disspiritedly around her knees, covering a dress he knows will be faded, the fabric clean, soap-scented, but fragile from years of washing. She does not look up, never makes eye contact unless speaking directly to a merchant or a rare acquaintance. In an absent-minded motion, reminiscent of the ubiquitous row of rosary-sayers at the churches of his youth, he polishes a blushing apple, turning it over and over, his eyes following the receeding pea-green rectangle until it disappears around a corner. Then, with a sigh, he gently replaces the fruit, and turns toward his next customer.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

It was not much (Day 614)

It was not much, but 

it was hours—

the intimate group of friends,

the bouquet of flowers 

   someone pressed 

      into my hands,

the elusive dress, the dinner, 

the rings we could not afford,

   but bought anyway,

that blurred, cloudy day, 

   when the sun broke through, 

and we promised 

   what we believed 

      was possible.

Looking back, the truth 

   is clear:

It was not much, but,

for a fleeting moment,

it was ours.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

News Break (Day 613)

I did
but now 

I don’t

I used to
but I can’t

I still want to
but I won’t

I do my best
(these days: 

 not much)

Which means 
I’m out
of touch

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Men and a woman reading headlines posted 

in street-corner  window of Brockton Enterprise 

newspaper office on Christmas Eve, Brockton, Mass.

Jack Delano/Picryl

Sunset Tanka (Day 612)

Sublime coral sky

Darkness obscures gentle waves

Voices fall silent

Tasting salt heightens sweetness

Only peacefulness remains

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

How Can I Give (Day 611)

How can I give you 

a tree—a fog-enfolded sequoia, 

or a sap-spitting sycamore 

   with dinner-plate leaves—

when you have never swooned 

   over the honeyed scent of freesias, 

   blooming in a sun-drenched courtyard? 

How can I give you 

that courtyard, 

that gathering of nodding, blue-and-yellow 

trumpets, when you have never 

spread your blanket on a patch of ground 

   redolent of hot pine resin 

   and sun-baked dust? 

How can I give to you the unknowable

—the kiss of minnows at your toes?

—the Red Riding Hood flash of a cardinal 

   against bare November woods?

—the soft, secret joy of a heart 

    that would always have been yours? 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Lady at the Bar (Day 610)

she finds fault

when she wants what’s not 

there   impossible to grasp

to understand   

and now   watch   

how interesting   the way 

her hand hovers 

for a moment 

too long   before she decides

to withdraw the favor

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Hearing Him (Day 609)

I like hearing him 

   when he isn’t talking 

when I can hear him 

   thinking 

   of new distractions 

   and glistening 

   attractions

to lure our attention 

   far from the drama 

   we all crave

I like listening 

   to the wheels 

   as they turn, slowly, 

methodically grinding out 

the ineffable nonsense

  of the day. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image from photo provided by US DoD 

Always Carry a Notebook (Day 608)

A poem   like a wasp

   appears   circles crisply

three times   hovers briefly  

   to see if I have anything 

interesting to offer   

If I flail   pen in hand  

   it may remain   humming 

and buzzing in my ear  

   but   met with indifference

it will disappear in a flash

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Karen Kincy/Pixabay

Hygge Haiku (Day 607)

Steam ribbons waver

Tiny flowers dance and bloom 

Amber-bound meadow

Windows laced with frost

Bird tracks quilt new-fallen snow

Woolen hours unwind

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Hannah Six

Haiku for Day 606

Effortless sunset

Circles bloom on still water

Snowlike, silence drifts

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

What She Remembers (Day 605)

She remembers him, sleek, 

elegant in black, on a night in June 

that shimmered like a mirage—

a night when he glanced up, over 

a room bubbling with guests—and 

saw her.

She remembers surprise and delight 

illuminating his black-coffee eyes, 

and the song the orchestra was playing 

as he wound his way across the dance floor,

through dozens of swaying couples,

  to say hello, 

  to say he enjoyed her latest,

  to say she was dazzling,

  to say he knew that, later, she would 

      want to ask his thoughts on...

She remembers him, that night, smiling, 

arrogant, pompous,

remembers telling him she didn’t care 

what he thought, 

remembers the silence as she walked away 

with (she hoped) a haughty tilt to her chin, 

   feeling his gaze trickle down her back,

   feeling him follow when she stepped 

      outside into a music-tinged night

   feeling him walk up behind her and stop, 

      only a foot away, where she could hear 

      the catch in his breath 

before he whispered her name, 

before he said what she remembers 

to this day...

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Emilio Labrador/Flickr (CC BY-2.0)

Spaces Between (Day 604)

Elastic sky, rain-stretched
clouds drawn groundward, 

air roaring, spaces between 

drops fewer and smaller,   

until we, after only a few yards,   

are soaking wet and shivering,   

no longer running for shelter—   

what would be the point? 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Nicolas Vigier/Flickr

Each blade of grass a story (Day 603)

Each blade of grass   a story

each paving stone   a poem

knitted of lichen & moss

punctuated by five-petaled

sky-blue flowers   so tiny 

they defy the eye of anyone 

who fails to stop & stoop 

over their miniature bower   

(only a select few ever do)   

& so   the stories & the poems 

go largely unnoticed   content 

in their role  delighting 

(mostly)   artists   & amblers  

& the patient companions 

of slow-sniffing dogs  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Short & Sweet (Day 602)

bearing down                on goodbye

from the south              tasting of buttered pancakes

wasn’t that the way      she always liked it

the storms fell               short & sweet

like dominoes or           like popular songs

so it seemed                   urgent & forgettable

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Elided (Day 601)

Hours like November trees   

denuded   silent   invisible 

sidewalks coated with answers

like gaudy rings 

on knobby fingers

a moth in the darkness   

I am unmentionable

my most joyous years  elided

now  quiet as a cloud   I exist 

in the passive tense   shouldn’t I 

have a name   wouldn’t I have 

etched traces of myself 

into life’s rough surface  

or maybe it is supposed to be 

enough to dwell (unnoticed) 

in the shadowy depths 

of a willow-graced stream

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

When I want you to know (Day 600)

now   when I want you 

to know   your eyes 

slide to the right 

you are gazing 

out our window   

but not seeing

what I see 

how   when I want you

to hear   can I reach

across this room and

all those years   too many 

words   fall   silent

on your distant shores

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Porovuori/Wikimedia Commons