Beneath a mantle
of words, my poem hides,
evading me.
No chisel at hand, I scrape,
with my pen, at the surface
of a page, bare
fingers clawing at gravel,
dislodging lumps of stone,
revealing, piece by piece,
what I have not
imagined, until it appears
fully formed, before me.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Auguste Rodin, The hand of God
via Picryl
Between my books and me,
No problems, just delight.
We keep each other company
Deep into every night.
My shelves may groan,
My nightstand moan,
My closets look a fright...
But my books give only pleasure,
And they’re ever so polite.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: AnneCN (CC BY 2.0)
Red dirt falls away to either side
curtains parting to reveal a road
vanishing like smoke in the dusk
and a strange sweet longing rises
with the moon not wanting this
to end for sunrise to remain
perpetually on the opposite side
of a vast desert sky promises
only suggested cannot be broken
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Gleb Tarro (CC BY-SA 4.0)
I.
There lived an angry, spoiled boy,
Whose misery was his favorite toy.
Since being sad alone’s no fun,
He gladly shared with everyone.
II.
Where rosy hope scented the air,
He planted gardens of despair,
Sowed weeds of hate that overpowered
Love and joy that might have flowered.
III.
Finally, he wore his welcome thin—
No one else would play with him.
Ignored, he lashed out, threatened, crying:
“You’ll lose!” But they knew he was lying.
IV.
One day, he grew oddly quiet.
Age, perhaps, or his poor diet?
Had smarter voters sent him packing,
or the NRA withdrawn its backing?
V.
It didn’t matter—no one dared to
question fortune. They didn’t care to.
For when he left, their anger vanished,
Despair dissolved, and hate was banished.
VI.
How did one small man inflict such harm?
Do butterfly wings really stir up storms?
And could there, behind his bloated spite,
Lurk a spoiled boy, trembling with fright?
VII.
This story’s moral, at least, is clear:
Compassion’s enemy is fear.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Darker outside almost
there brighter in your light
is always out hedonist
in summer swooping
southward embracing
winter’s scoured sin
bereft of leaves
and company
so pale go the bones
meager into the boiling soup
enough and frail still
the willow wept ice tears
for graceful flocks of starlings
who sweep the night sky
clear knowing
what blooms in spring
beyond the hedge wayward
and green
completes a tender loop
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel
One summer night
she found
the pleasure of dancing
was indistinguishable
from the thin smoke
like windchimes
twisting
almost imperceptibly
in the motionless indigo air
While beyond the gate
two moon-silvered soldiers
upright and solemn
as candlesticks
remain
just out of sight waiting
for one whose eyes
see everything but them
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Consider a lace-trimmed shore
or the pewter poetry of deserts
gasping for wind-snatched breath
unable to look
I close my eyes ignore these
veins of tarnished earth
brash and ugly
sagging beneath their burdens
of privilege and joy
still fall remains and pain
returning arrogant as winter
prickly and foolish the solid silence
that follows its fragile consolation
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
Even when silence paints
the walls gray you have choices
about how you use me
stolid ponds gaze skyward
off the map seekers on a pilgrimage
from the known world
a place to rest when the present
feels too sharp because
understanding is worth the effort
while inside the world is emptied
hollowed by grief in keeping
with the evening’s festive theme
a fresh bottle appears as if
by magic without thought
to the whims of creation
or creators whose needs
were irrelevant anyhow
pure real promises
quiet of a different kind comes
gathering impressions of longing
erasing evidence unseen
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Guillaume Nargeot (CC BY 3.0)
You like to say we are all one—
there is no Us, no Them—but
I must beg to differ.
We lock our doors and windows.
They endure unimaginable danger.
We are seldom hungry.
They are often famished.
We are sheltered from the elements.
They are exposed to extremes.
We feel at home in the world.
They roam in an infinite wilderness.
We are confident that our children
will enjoy the liberty we espouse.
They see us drag theirs away,
lose them, mock them, watch them
die, unprotected, uncomforted.
So, don’t tell me you see no difference
between Us and Them, when, clearly,
we are not the same at all.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Dezső Czigány, Still-life with Apples and Oranges (1910), oil on canvas
Sometimes the words swimming
beneath the music
are there before you know
what they mean
what to say
the right thing is so often
a dandelion blooming
bright as joy or gone to seed
floating weightless
a sigh when all the tender graces
of the world break your heart
and only the dance
of golden wings in the shifting light
can lift you above
the dark-rising tide swirling at your feet
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
today is lavender
lemonade in a frosted glass
and she is looking up
little pearls of wisdom
and that river in China
where water flows gold
with silt relinquished
by distant hills
butter softens to beat
into a cake for hours
on end she wishes this day
finished so she might
subside into cool sheets
and dream amid
the night’s lower octaves
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: GoodFreePhotos
