I closed my eyes (Day 743)

I closed my eyes 

   and angels soared   

great wings beating   flapping 

at the air  

like four and twenty blackbirds 

or a score 

   of fireflies   

         suspended 

over a field of spring-green wheat

I closed my eyes 

   and a wave arose 

transluscent   towering   

with a roar 

that froze my heart   still 

I did not founder

did not drown    but floated   gently   

   over its crest  

         at rest 

upon the liferaft of my breath 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

She Managed (Day 742)

despite all the years hurled at her  

she managed to live a good life  

sometimes it arrived wrapped 

in delicate silver-traced tissue  

pure and soft as confectioner’s sugar  

and just as sweet  but   more often  

she found  life had to be wrenched or 

wriggled into place  kicking 

and screaming or   now and then  

laughing   until tears glazed her cheeks

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Edouard Manet, Plum Brandy (1877), oil on canvas

via Wikimedia Commons

An Option (Day 741)

pushing food around their plates   

passing conversation around 

their table   reactions flared and faded   

the unthinkable was real   criminal 

dismissive  disdainful  wait—we choose 

to carry them, don't we?   silence  

unspoken  decisions were made 

one nodded  another smiled  an option

arose  a balance shifted  this wasn’t 

just lunch  it felt more like revolution 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

A feathered thing (Day 740)

That thing has feathers 

for a reason   it flies away 

away   toward the green hills 

or the brown   over fences 

and stands of trees   past 

where those soldiers lay in rows   

or where they fell   scattered 

like petals   like stones 

that thing has feathers to fly 

into the golden sun as it rises 

as it sets   through lavender 

banks of clouds    against gales   

storms   fierce burning sleet 

flies toward the south  the east 

toward distant mountains 

crystalized in shimmering air

and strange warm seas 

where shadows sink and swim  

but   though it perches here 

and there  I often glimpse it 

flying away   its song 

receeding   trickling 

into the blue  blue distance  

In response to Emily Dickinson

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

He is More (Day 739)

he is more than the lax way 

his lips   shiny with spit   purse 

when he speaks in riddles   

more than those childish hands   

that odd way of standing apart   

even in the midst   he is more than 

earth-toned hair (titanium yellow) 

and skin (quinacridone gold) or 

the stovepipe cut of his ill-fitting 

pants   on fire   he is   an effigy   

a meme   a sinner   a clown  
and the tiny-hands-down winner 
of the craziest race ever run
in which everyone   every  one   

from judge to bystander   lost 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: George Barnard/Wikimedia Commons

Missing an Eclipse (Day 738)

alone in a tumbledown barn

windy  frozen  vital  missing 

an eclipse   in reality the moon 

red as candle wax over rooftops  

making them  possible  

harder to catch  killing time  

conversation  nothing really  joy 

is their calling  reliable  unfinished  

unlimited  a mist of reality 

drifts through broken windows   

cementing the panes in that way 

two people can be joined 

together by a secret   or a lie

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Beyond the Gate (Day 737)

The road beyond the gate wobbled 

and tripped over a countryside so green 

as to stun the senses, painted so vividly 

it seemed impossible you could not 

feel and smell and taste each shade, but only 

feast your eyes and pray the image lingered. 

The road beyond the gate spoke your name 

in a language without words, luring you

with a flirtatious curl here and a voluptuous 

angle there, the parts you could not see 

driving you mad with curiosity. 

The road beyond the gate led you beyond 

low-rolling hills, beyond verdant groves 

and sheep-strewn pastures, beyond towns 

and cities to the sovereign sea, on whose 

elegant margin you sway, now, idling, eternal,

poised between yesterday and tomorrow.

Inspired by a mystical experience, as described by artist Duncan Grant (1885 – 1978), a member of the famous Bloomsbury Group. I came across Grant’s tale in this beautifully-written article: https://www.theculturium.com/duncan-grant-berwick-church/

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Her eyes are open (Day 736)

You’re wondering why 

you kept her number, 

why everyone you know 

seems to be going 

somewhere, while you 

stand, ankle-deep, in 

quick-drying concrete.

The lights are out, but in 

the candlelight you can 

see a glimmer—her eyes 

are open. She is awake, 

sitting cross-legged 

on your floor, waiting 

for you to say something.  

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Haiku for Day 735

Mottled curtain falls

Striving skyward, branches sway

Spring waits, hesitant

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

If You Don’t (Day 734)

How can I walk on this ice 

   without slipping?

How can I look the other way? 

Navigate this overgrown path

  without tripping?

Feel my heart break every day? 

Beloved liars, bullies, friends— 

  because I’ll love you if you don’t,

and when we reach our separate ends,

  I may still love you if you do.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Hardship (Day 733)

It breaks our hearts that you’re so hungry,

and we ache for you—we do—

because we feel famished, too, 

sometimes, when dinner is hours away.

It breaks our hearts that you are freezing, 

and we feel for you—we do—

because we feel chilly, too,

sometimes, and must turn up the heat.

It breaks our hearts that you’re in danger,

and we shudder for you—we do—

because we feel afraid, too,

sometimes, when life seems to go awry.

So please don’t call us heartless,

or say we don’t care about you.

In fact, if you had more compassion, 

you’d see: We know hardship, too.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

PB&J (Day 732)

That was a peanut-butter-and-jelly sort of day: 

Sweet, salty center, a bit tired toward the end,

Gently satisfying, in a nostalgic way,

Comforting as coffee with a trustworthy friend.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Matias Garabedian/Wikimedia Commons

The Same Pure Sound (Day 731)

Hesitant morning 

leaned and stretched 

into the shape of an afternoon 

the color of unwashed glass, 

and found me, dreaming, 

pen in hand.

Two bright birdcalls 

   streamed from the woods 

beyond a rumpled counterpane 

   of grass and snow spread out 

below the window 

where I lingered.

As bircalls will, 

they drew a glance, 

green-eyed, from the sill, 

where the ginger cat 

had arranged himself 

like an eclair 

on a bistro plate

We both glanced toward 

   the denuded trees, reacting 

to the same pure sound—

To me, spring whispered: 

   Just a while.

The cat licked his chops, 

   and appeared to smile.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Now That You’re Gone (Day 730)

Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life...

an empty basket; you put your life into it 

and make something out of that. 

— Mary Oliver (1935 – 2019)

I don’t know what to say to you 

now that you’re gone. 

Never did I assume we’d meet, yet 

your presence was a warm blanket 

on a cold night, your voice a chorus 

of bells dancing lightly across 

a snowy morning. When I forgot 

the perfection of the everyday, 

I turned to you. Your words 

offered the warmth of a familiar 

embrace, the companionship of 

a wise friend. You were inscrutable. 

Inimitable. Cheerfully, delightfully 

unattainable. Out of sight, 

you were often out of mind. 

And then, like spring’s first crocus, 

there you’d be, delighting me 

all over again, reminding me of all 

the reasons why this world is 

worth the pain, worth living in, 

worth dying for. And so, you did. 

And, now that you are gone, 

I don’t know what to say anymore.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Claude Monet, The Magpie

via Wikimedia Commons

Try to imagine (Day 729)

Try to imagine 

   how it felt at the time  

quiet  complicated afternoons 

   sidling up to the jukebox 

playing Journey and painting 

panoramic pictures of the bay   

nibbling on Twix  curiosity 

   and imagination   carefree  

empty hands slippery with clay  

relationships rigid with freedom

instinctive  obssessive  wild 

like a hundred little campfires 

   on broad damp beaches

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

How it all became clear (Day 728)

How your day was 

crystalline  gulping

great mouthfuls of cold

along the way 

to your end   

of a snow-muted rainbow

How it all became

clear   wind-scoured

clouds lightened

violet mountains resting 

on layers of bare trees

How  like a Japanese quilt   

it was   tinted every delicate 

shade of taupe   edged 

with mauve

in the melancholy 

manner of winter 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay