Monday, September 30, 2019

Sisyphean (Day 985)


Looking at again
again   
one more 
time
up the hill
familar
face of stone 
a pleated map
my hands 
read 
while my mind 
like tomorrow 
morning
wanders  back 
to the deep 
green beginning

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay

Sunday, September 29, 2019

Hidden (Day 984)

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

Saturday, September 28, 2019

My books... (Day 983)

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)


Friday, September 27, 2019

Curtains parting (Day 982)

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)

Thursday, September 26, 2019

He cannot forget (Day 981)


He cannot forget
How she always remembered 
   where he’d left his keys 
How she liked to kick off her shoes
   and dance to old country-western 
   songs while she cooked  
How the violet-blue calligraphy of
   veins stood out against the eggshell 
   skin of her inner wrists
How gently she handled each flute
   as she packed their wedding crystal 
How savagely she rended their home 
   with six little words 
How surprised she looked 
   when his surprise became apparent
How she glanced back at him just once 
   in her rearview mirror 
He cannot forget 
How she forgot 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Cold heart (Day 980)


Don’t let a reflection of how 
you hurt — deceive you
 — cold heart of water  
always glowing red and orange 
— who says nothing   trying 
to tell you 
— victor in a war of silence 
burnished by sunset
those waves are terrible words
blue as they ever were 
burning and stinging   tears 
— wept when you looked away

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay

Tuesday, September 24, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 7 [Final] (Day 979)

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


Monday, September 23, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 6 (Day 978)

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?

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Sunday, September 22, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 5 (Day 977)


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.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Saturday, September 21, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 4 (Day 976)

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?

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Friday, September 20, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 3 (Day 975)

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.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Thursday, September 19, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 2 (Day 974)

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.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

An angry, spoiled boy: Part 1 (Day 973)

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.

(c) 2019, By Hannah Six

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Almost there (Day 972)


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

Monday, September 16, 2019

One summer night (Day 971)

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

Sunday, September 15, 2019

Blue Skies (Day 970)

Still   he can hear her breath 
at night   in his heart   meets her 
in his dreams    rambling along 
clifftop paths   sandals in hand   
bare feet brown on the dusty road 

wandering aimlessly   sunflower 
face slanted toward golden light   
sometimes whistling or humming 
songs that   once upon a time
had enthralled her grandparents

Blue skies
Smiling at me
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see

a curve of beach spread out below   
like a picnic   gray sand smooth 
as ice   pale and dry   unmarred 
by tourists’ trash and trampling   
eternal   pristine   still   he can see 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: KingofHearts  (CC BY-SA 4.0)

Saturday, September 14, 2019

A brief romance (Day 969)

He hates to see her go—
Pale hair snapping in cold salt spray,
Refusing to look back.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Picryl

Friday, September 13, 2019

Quilted (Day 968)


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

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Beloved (Day 967)

So elegant.
I could’ve done her, he says. 
So tall. 
I could’ve nailed her
So frail.
My one regret
Angel of the populace, 
brilliant in blue, beloved 
in white, in miles of tulle 
and satin, demure 
as an ancient daemon. 
On a long-ago night, 
someone named a star 
after you, after me. 
When he told me, I laughed, 
slicing his pain with the shards 
of my cold-splintered heart. 
The heart he froze, 
he shattered. And you, 
when you left without saying 
goodbye.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay


Interesting note: In ancient Greece, daemons “…were 
considered divine powers, fates, guardian spirits, or 
angels, who gave guidance and protection, and scarcely 
figure in Ancient Greek art or mythology, their presence 
was felt, rather than seen. “ (Greeker than the Greeks)



Wednesday, September 11, 2019

A Day Like This (Day 966)

Day before yesterday the lingering 
twilight  hesitating to grow dark
began to shimmer and glow
as fireflies hatched 
and rose on a cooling breeze

Yesterday green grass turned
to dust  crunching like gravel 
underfoot  while a chorus 
of cicadas and katydids chanted
to soothe the heat-stunned world 

Today dawned  suddenly  blue 
as spring  and  though storm clouds 
grew in the western sky  it seemed 
best to act as if I didn’t know 
the rain would ever come

As if nothing bad could ever happen 
on a day like this

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Sun setting over the wetlands 
at the Flight 93 National Memorial 
in Stoystown, Pennsylvania (USNPS photo)

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Cento 25: As if by magic (Day 965)


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)

Monday, September 9, 2019

Not the same (Day 964)


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

Sunday, September 8, 2019

The Right Thing (Day 963)


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


Saturday, September 7, 2019

Yellow (Day 962)

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