The unwritten unwritten
the unpaid unpaid
the raw uncooked
beneath a blue-gray blanket
of clouds the land settles
broad brown hips
of hills stalwart
and voluptuous remain
unlooked at unappreciated
a hunger unfed
clutter unsorted and I
out of sorts (like my mail)
take another breath and try
to begin again
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Shenandoah National Park
Courtesy US NPS
Isn’t the sky like a pearl today
all gray and pink and creamy?
Isn’t the world a dreamy place
when you forget to think?
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Alan R Light (CC BY 2.0)
It was another day
another foxed page
torn from a book
shelved in the attic of
a seldom-visited library
A day as tender
as my mother’s hand
in mine soft and fragile
as a tiny gray bird
newly hatched
A day too tough
to nibble or chew
dry and hard
as the pigs’ ears
for which my dog
begs and yearns
It was another day
but now it’s done
night drawn about me
like a shawl comforting
dark and promising
a warmer tomorrow
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
December is drawing
the sharp edge
of its blade
across an afternoon
gently falling.
Can these be the same trees,
spindly and dull
from which
—last May—a harvest
of birds were calling?
And this field, uncut
and stunted
by the cold—
could fireflies have risen,
blinking, from it,
just as the rose moon was
dawning?
To compare is to invite
sorrow for tea,
and He is not welcome here.
Still, knowing that somewhere
a fragrant garden
is in bloom, a breeze is
balmy, while one shovels
snow and ice
is galling.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Ray Hennessey (CC0 1.0)
On the side of the hill, where
hundreds of sunflowers had nodded
and turned their faces toward
last August’s brilliant golden light—
there, she turned to me,
and her face was pale as a star,
falling from the sky into the waiting
arms of leafless trees, their branches
straining, reaching upward
to catch her as she tumbled by, soft
and weightless as a feather,
too ethereal to seize,
too temporal to remain aloft.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Landscape at Twilight (1890), Vincent van Gogh,
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons
It is quiet, inside.
We are hiding
from the noise,
and calling it
peace. We are
pretending that
the world is not
burning.
Shhh...
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
I gaze I wander along
flowing looping lines
watching them change
and grow and flutter until
persistent they find a way
to invade my quietest hours
even accompanying me
on night-long journeys
through a bright clutter
of undreamt dreams
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
Snow scented wind slides
Shards of blue slice silken clouds
Bare trees remember
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Do not misconstrue his inability to say
what must be said. It’s not his fault,
you know. He is a hummingbird,
buzzing from one dangling plastic
container to the next, always hoping
someone remembered to refill that
lurid nectar on which his life depends.
© 2018, by Hannah Six
yes no wet snow yes between
my toes sand fingers
linger waves toss a gray
and restless sea to see
across those waves
a sunrise waits for me
across those waves of yes I
float the sun orange tide
high float and ride a restless
yes a heaving in between
flowing unseen west glancing
yes no rising sunlight circles
dancing on my unseen sky
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Shaheen Karolia (CC BY 2.0)
Not seeing not hearing
self-induced
smokescreen but truth
still seeps in
around the edges
wedging its way
past my not wanting
to know.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel
Raindrops stitch
a sodden sky
Imperceptibly, gray
shifts to blue
Lifting the corner
of twilight
To see what lies below
its velvet edge
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
man dances rhumba
hand on the waist
of an invisible partner
she has not been easy
to lead relentless birdlike
interest quick and sharp
turning and twisting in his
arms glancing at her own
feet to assure herself
she will not be carried
away working furiously
at the tragic melange
she enjoys never being
asked to dance with him
or any man he finds it funny
he’d believed she could
apparently he was wrong
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Vernon and Irene Castle,
by Frances Benjamin Johnston
