mist of roses languid waterfalls
nostalgia trickling tumbling
into fathomless teal pools
choosing not choosing
what to not to do
something I think of you
when I choose
my seven reticent lines
from that once-generous stretch
of time known as ours
but perhaps more appropriately
described as: then
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Roses of Heliogabalus (1888),
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons
between morning and tonight
or lie awake and worry
what is there to do
the sky a pearl
trees gather wind I see
and from my bed
framed by the window
stirs the dull afternoon
but go to sleep
about the empty hours
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: John Singer Sargeant, The sketchers (1914),
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia
Waiting for the gardener, amidst tangles
of weeds, unpruned vines, ivy
invading my yard, green interweaving gray
fence posts into a rugged raft.
The gardener will prune and mow, tidy
and sculpt, methodically unravelling
knotted brambles, artfully arranging
this muddled acre. Still,
as he arrives at the weathered gate,
I hesitate, certain that, if they could
speak, my wilding masses would say:
We prefer nature’s order to your chaos.
But, while the birds (and I)
would ardently agree, how my neighbors
would react is hardly a mystery.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
restructure howls allowing wooden floors
bemused words before laughter made indoors
their longer sense in frowning dew responds
acknowledging how coldly troubling fronds
pale underwater sounds yet yielding rose
false mortals pasture into centering bowls
allowing decisive rules soft stunning full
an utter birdcage past pale twilights pull
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Camille Pissarro, Orchard in Bloom, Louveciennes (1872),
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons
on the screen, a standard cowboy
the quiet type, a man apart
still waters run deep, her mama said
but those depths can drown your heart
aisle seat, popcorn and soda,
hand to mouth, of its own accord
white-hot August, cold dark theater,
the only vacation she could afford
far from these bleak, baked city streets:
windscrubbed plains and starswept nights
no memos to type, no bus to catch—
just room to breathe, villains to fight
of course she knows this is just fiction
frontier life was unforgiving
but in this quiet cowboy’s arms
life would somehow feel worth living
so she surrenders, flaws and all,
and the dream sustains when weekdays crawl
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
They knew culture and cowboys,
pizza and Paris, taciturn deer hunters,
and voluble librarians.
Theirs was basic fare: nursery rhymes,
quiet forests, images of renowned
beauty, predictable and familiar.
What they missed was poetry—
rhapsodic, epic, true, life-saving
—replete with nutrient-dense language,
packaged in yellowed pages
and flaking paperback covers, with
the lethal heft of a Norton anthology.
As their youth subsided, they persisted,
choosing only each other, embracing
the silence, forsaking the gilded,
sirenic allure of the tawdry
and the social. For years,
under a deluge of outside influences,
it seemed they hardly talked at all,
and ceased to expect the unexpected.
Until that Tuesday morning, bright
and crisp as green apples, when they
awoke to find their own
long-cherished myth had begun
to transform the mundane.
All around them, fountains flowed,
and forests chimed like bells.
Barely breathing, they allowed
themselves to open the cover,
allowed the book to fall open, but
it was only when they sank with relief
into the everlasting depths
of those transparent pages,
that even the taciturn deer hunters
began to speak in verse.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
Crystal curls on foggy glass
Trickling lines of liquid poetry
Calligraphy in rain drops
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
Honeylit pond leaf-feathered
falling music daisy padded lawns
lingering spring murmuring in
emerald-paved pavillions palm
fronds whistling cooled golden
smiles touched by decades passing
still before your eyes a eucalyptus
path beneath vermillion clouds
and windchimes tuned to those old
songs see now where you belong
salt-tinged this birthright sprawled
beneath your buckling knees a dream
broad brush-stroked hours inspire
swathes of fog-veiled tears and
leaving feels like coming home
just yesterday this way just stay
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Pollen gilds the breeze
Silently, pink petals fall—
Drifting, candied snow
Distant peaks cloaked in pure white
Still lost in dreams of winter
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Original photo: US BLM
He was not the first
to leave, nor will he be
the last, but you
are past the point
of caring, of opening
your door when you hear
his footsteps on your walk,
of answering your telephone
when he is lonely and just
wants to talk or cry,
of melting when he shares
his secret smile—the one
that promises to grant
your every wish. He may not
have been the first to leave,
but you are certain, now,
are past the point
of caring, of lingering on
the sharp edge of goodbye.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
each a foreign country
murmurring & marveling
in love with its own
impatient sighs still folding
them in two & two again
sweet soft voices rise & fall
lure like joy this tumbling
to velvet ground this bed
of bluebells softening
familiar rose-clothed tables
tarnished & decorous
meandering beside the blue
beyond still sheltered corners
through high-plains winds
endless & deep as a first kiss
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Colin/Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0)
