Uninspired (Day 832)

like ice   words 

tumble  hard 

edges meet sharp 

corners cracking 

a blue sky 

into a million 

tiny cubes

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Miguel Acosta via Pexels

Hope (Day 831)

Hope cannot be caged

it cannot be 

swept from the sky 

in a net, 

it would die, disconsolate, 

if it were 

not allowed to be free.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Alex Proimos (CC BY 2.0)

via Wikimedia Commons

Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s “Hope” is the thing with feathers (314)

An ending (Day 830)

An ending is beginning

its dolorous embrace  

comforting   protecting   

draped shoulder to shoulder

like a sun-warmed blanket  

stronger where 

measures were taken 

to repair a barely audible 

hiss   just a touch 

too loud   it has been silenced 

and we have 

no need   now   no interest 

in keeping the whole 

world awake 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Maxpixel

Haiku for Day 829

(Photo via Pixabay)

Otherwise (Day 828)

You wait for the mist 

to lift   for the rain to clear 

you don’t know why it is 

so often raining 

here where the sky burns 

blue as candle flame 

blue as the sea 

whipped to a froth 

by cold winds 

on a Wednesday afternoon 

you wait and when the waiting 

seems too much to bear

you make room 

on your blanket for the day 

to sprawl beside you 

and together you watch 

clouds sail overhead 

and dream of a time 

when it might be otherwise

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Maxpixel

Unanswered (Day 827)

Stillness falls on anxious ears 

these days   reverberating 

below the frequency of 

so many unanswered questions 

Each quiet moment 

a vertical glance of daylight 

wrapped in test-tube clarity

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

The best words (Day 826)

then desert me   they taunt 

and tease in these needful 

hours   like rain clouds   

blown away   the best words 

do is say   there are things 

I must tell you but   no matter   

they will wait for a rainy day

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Toward evening (Day 825)

nervous world unwinds

slumps along   faint

   mauve smoke  toward 

heady evening  swift 

fluttering light 

pure  real  promises that  

indoors  quiet 

  of a different kind comes  

  unfurls  satin-petalled 

in full bloom  at last

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

Things men told me (Day 824)

Again, the ornamental cherries bloom

fruitlessly fake   empty calories   

dripping great gobs of frosting flowers   

tempting    things men told me

   there’s a glow about you tonight 

   you are beautiful in the morning light 

   how wild and free you are   

      like a lion   untamed  

that last was the oddest   heartfelt and 

   almost touching in the awkward way 

   of an eight-year-old who shuffles 

   and looks down as he hands 

   his mother the gift of his heart   

artless and abundant   the things 

   you hear when they want or don't want    

how the petals drift and hurry on 

   the sharp breeze stripping spring 

   from cherry trees that will 

never offer ripe flesh to summer’s heat

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Cento 76 (Day 823)

like maple syrup  a sapling 

like him might have been 

a little sweeter  

lingering over a trophy 

goodbye  trees set against 

a buttery dawn 

know how to bend 

the nature of things  some ask 

to be released from the pinnacle 

of power  and to sway is to change 

finally resting among a crowd 

 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Haiku for Day 822

sunlight foreshadows

bare limbs sprayed green, yellow, pink

nature’s graffiti 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Perpignan, graffiti rue Guillaume Dauder de Selvavia Wikimedia Commons

An unusual silence (Day 821)

Rain taps nervously on the window, 

reminding me of an unusual silence

another listless day, tasting of ozone 

and buttered toast, slightly burnt,

slumps toward night, breathing tepid 

promises of billowing May, heady 

with flutterings, and afternoon storms 

bending these gold-tipped trees

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Embroidery sampler (1840s), Mexico,

via Wikimedia Commons

The pen lingers (Day 820)

the pen lingers 

like winter  

like a closed door

without compassion

for the longing

of the empty page

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Beside me (Day 819)

When you see me 

sitting here, the sun 

bright in my eyes 

and warm 

on my arms, 

you may think I am 

alone. But that 

chair beside me 

is not empty. 

When the world 

seems too fierce 

and burdens 

too heavy to bear, 

I offer them a seat—

and, there, they wait

patiently, for me 

to rise again.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Tanka for Day 818

 

Doors open to spring

All things sing and bud and bloom.

Pale blue breeze lingers.

Drifts of snow, now merely dreams.

Rising mist glows, whispers: Yes. 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Dark now (Day 817)

Like thunder   the world’s 

sorrow lands on my heart   

beating me into near 

submission   but for 

a mere glimmer of light

dark now for millions 

of years   luring me toward 

a sweeter time than now

a warmer place than here

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Statue of Joan of Arc in Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral interior, Paris, 

taken spring 2001. Copyright © 2001 by Steven G. Johnson.

 via Wikimedia Commons

A day awash (Day 816)

And so  this

veil  still

holding the sun’s

warmth  and gold

as desert sand

blurs the edges

of a day awash

in all the muted

tones of gray

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

On a scale (Day 815)

with the careful measured 

movements of a thief   he places 

pretty baskets on a scale 

baskets of tiny skeletons  one by one  

birdlike and frail  piled high 

against his crumbling castle walls

woven by knotted hands too sore 

to lift a bowl to hungry lips  no matter  

seldom paid enough to eat

he weighs and counts with glee

each batch of small bleached bones 

a victory  a testament to his wasting 

sun whose hate trumps love  and there  

beneath his gaze  they grow  

stunted with despair and fail to thrive

worthless alive  he craves the click 

of little clavicles and ribs in baskets 

he can weigh against his greed

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Gilded Cages (Day 814)

in what gilded cages 

they live out their lot of rosé days 

and bourbon nights  

cheeks prickling  eyes glowing 

with the satisfaction 

of another’s job 

well done

how do they silence  when they 

creep between their chambers 

late at night  all those doors 

squealing with disuse

how   in portraits  

do their artists capture the lurid 

shade of self-inflated fury

or   for sympathy  do they display 

jagged edges and disappear 

again  eyes glazed 

with fear and longing  to shelter 

in those jangling cells of luxury  

drawing close their velvet drapes 

against an inner darkness 

teeming with the fervent desires 

and untested truths 

of a feverish equatorial night

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Evelyn De Morgan, The Gilded Cage (ca 1900 – 1919), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Comfort, upended (Day 813)

fairy tale maidens are 

no more  and comfort 

has been upended  

kindness turned on its side

love 

grown 

vertical  with only 

a small speck of compassion 

lingering  like a knife  

hovering above 

an undefiled snowfield

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: La Dame à la licorne: À mon seul désir (15th cent.),

wool and silk tapestry, via Wikimedia Commons

Silence scattered (Day 812)

Is it enough  that

I told you

how I feel (maybe not 

how much  

not how little

nor even what  

but  at least  how)

Is it enough  that

you trampled 

and smashed the fragile 

silence  scattered 

shards of eggshell 

strewn carelessly

in your wake

Or  perhaps  you prefer 

the power 

of not knowing  

the way 

it allows you to take 

what you want  

without the sting 

of conscience you might 

feel  if  for an hour 

or two

you simply listened

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

To kiss (Day 811)

to kiss you 

is to hold 

a photograph 

of a desolate 

field  in which 

many a flower 

might bloom

 (c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Haiku for Day 810

Darkness diminished.

Twisted vines, indifferent.

New, fragrant life burns.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Frederick Carl Frieseke, Cherry Blossoms (1913), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons