Friday, January 31, 2020

The woods (Day 1107)

The morning the bulldozers arrived

dawned cold and gray in that 

soft-focused way midwinter has 

of lulling you into believing it might 

soon come to an end.


Unbeknownst to us, during the night, 

a fleet of equipment had trundled in. 

Now they hid, noses to the ground, m

shrouded by dried grasses and

the fragile embrace of leafless limbs.

As dawn melted into day, those great 

yellow beasts began to stir, belching 

smoke and raising a metallic roar. 


At this, the nearby trees trembled 

for the terrified creatures dwelling 

among them. The creatures trembled,

too, for the trees, whose presence was 

often their only solace, their shelter 

from a mystifying, encroaching world.

Still, the rumbling giants came, 

and woods and woodland creatures 

trembled in vain. 


One by one, the machines turned 

their relentless force against the trees. 

So divided, they fell, trunks snapping, 

each rending the air with the prolonged 

crack of a shattering heart. 


Without a pause, eight gap-toothed 

blades advanced upon the sleeping fields,

while, behind them, a handful of men 

fed the remains of sentinel elms and 

towering oaks—neatly piled, like bodies 

after a bloody battle—into an insatiable 

maw. 


At day’s end, the ground bore only 

a trace of golden dust, which the wind 

swirled into a ghostly forest that rose 

and fell throughout the night.


The next morning dawned cold and gray,

in that bitter way winter has 

of reminding you it has not even begun. 

And we, venturing out, saw this:

Where once a life-giving woods grew tall,

now there is emptiness. 

Where once fertile fields rippled and 

bloomed, now there is only dust.


(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Thursday, January 30, 2020

Patient moon (Day 1106)

I do not want to hear 

about planets and satellites,

astronomy and outer space.

Instead, let me continue 

to linger at my window, 

watching the patient moon

make her slow progress

across the darkening sky. 

Let me continue to believe 

she is my friend.


(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Image: PxFuel

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

Used to be mine (Day 1105)


The left side of my bed

Five o’clock in the morning

The fluffiest, longest pillow

A bright blanket I crocheted

Those little blue bowls

The most comfortable chair

That fringed wool scarf

My heart


(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

Distractions, #1 (Day 1104)


Oh, please stop yelling every night—
I have poetry to write,
and can barely hear myself think.
Your anger may drive me to drink!
I know the children make you crazy,
and your unhelpful husband’s lazy.
If I could help you, ma’am, I would!
But, for now, perhaps you could
try not to yell—just for tonight—
because I have a poem to write.

© 2020 by Hannah Six


Monday, January 27, 2020

Haiku for Day 1103

Immersed in sunrise

Beyond darkness songbirds call

Pale consolation


(c) 2020 by Hannah Six


Sunday, January 26, 2020

Plundered (Day 1102)


leaning in we plundered 
our good fortune 
as if we had done this before
when we were young   when we were 
the same age as when you left
me   standing in the wings admiring 
you   all bones and sharp 
edges   confidence   grace
I hear you took my advice 
and never again touched pen to paper
never again licked raw honey 
from your fingers   nor ventured outside 
in a violent purple storm
those were our last hours together
though we did not speak   
did not look at each other
as if the volume had been turned off
as if the lights had gone out again
and at last we did not speak

© 2020, by Hannah Six
Image: Don Amaro (CC BY 2.0) via Wikimedia Commons





Saturday, January 25, 2020

From her hands, Pt 4 (Day 1101)

IV.
with abandon 
from her hands:  life
sublime   bestowed
we   in return   bulldoze 
and burn   tomorrow 
but a dream   ours 
to cherish   ours to lose
the mystery   will we 
wake in time   or slip
unknowing
from her hands

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Image:Pexels

Friday, January 24, 2020

From her hands, Pt 3 (Day 1100)


III.
from her hands
in a field of fragile flowers
from her hands
on a snow-smooth mountainside
from her hands
beneath a cloud of burning ash
from her hands
so deep no light shines through

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Image: Piqsels

Thursday, January 23, 2020

From her hands, Pt 2 (Day 1099)

II.
from her hands:
pools of cool 
shade  October leaves
and April mist
a sunrise song
and   come July 
a midnight symphony

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Image: NASA

Wednesday, January 22, 2020

From her hands, Pt 1 (Day 1098)

I.
from her hands:
new grass and rain
sand for miles 
and storms at sea
prairies rippling 
in the wind   spring 
water cold as ice

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Image: Picryl

Tuesday, January 21, 2020

Tanka for Day 1097


The gold sun rides low.
Above, branches snap and snake.
Icebound grass crunches.

Where relentless heat once seared,
vast blue skies belie the chill.

© 2020 by Hannah Six
Image: Pixnio


Monday, January 20, 2020

Fragments of midnight (Day 1096)

Slowly   you resolve 
a soft blanket   satin 
edges   turning 

inside out   small 
children collect fragments
of midnight   shells of stars 

strewn like hail   you 
fall away   little by little   
a tree past its prime   

splashing   ruby red
leaves   onto
the crumpled sidewalk 

© 2020, by Hannah Six

Sunday, January 19, 2020

Cento 33: Fields of yes (Day 1095)

holding on    we went  
undisguised   exploring 
places we once knew
velvety fields of yes
waterfalls   brilliant birds
the hollow of your throat
those hours broke our hearts  
waiting in their midst  
veering into darkness yet 
again   all is indistinguishable
you  mending the frayed edges 
of an encroaching forest
I  kneeling on my flat rock
mindful of your progress

(c) 2020, by Hannah Six
Image:PxHere

Saturday, January 18, 2020

Write Soon (Day 1094)


she told me   remember

draw the blinds 

when the light fades   write soon

a letter on fine paper

the sun came out   the clouds

in your half script   blown 

away by a cold new wind 

years ago   remember

the minty taste of a stamp

mercurial   it seemed to melt 

and curl at the corners

and the light changed  remember

press down hard at the edges 

or it might slip away


(c) 2020, by Hannah Six


Friday, January 17, 2020

Delicate (Day 1093)

Stillness envelops

delicate   a shell-blue sky

gentle as sadness

or a dove’s round song

pale mist rising   subsiding


(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere


Thursday, January 16, 2020

Incoming tides (Day 1092)


The way the ocean 
reprimands the shore
demanding it resist 
with all its might
the rushing whispers 
of incoming tides

the way it kissed that silver 
bow-shaped beach  
illuminated by 
a fragile moon   painting
platinum crescents 
on the sand  

was love ever won at such 
a desperate cost 
or lost without 
the shadow of a care

© 2020, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

Time Flies (Day 1091)

Time flies! There’s not enough
tonight to write a decent poem.
So I’ll round up some fluffy rhymes
and help them find a home.

Maybe tomorrow I might find
an hour or two to play. 
For now, these lines will have
to do—I’m out of time today.

© 2020, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

And rest (Day 1090)

At times, silence is peaceful 
as midnight, a soft blanket 
of quiet that settles 
in comforting folds.
Wrap yourself 
in its warmth—savor it, 
this moment of not doing, 
not being what you are 
expected to be. And rest 
assured: Our noisy world 
will interrupt soon enough.

© 2020, by Hannah Six

Monday, January 13, 2020

Not cold enough (Day 1089)

Cold  but not cold enough
neither fall nor spring
sparse and gray 
the leafless trees glow blue 
on distant hills  where 
the sun’s last rose-gold rays 
gild a scalloped ridge

Not cold enough  but cold
neither wintery nor warm 
a hairline break
in January’s icy shell  and 
in the woods 
small creatures stir 
and on the branches: buds

Cold  but not cold enough
though glowing clouds 
portend a coming storm
and snow will swirl
and silence fall 
for weeks or months  until
the days lengthen again

© 2020, by Hannah Six



Sunday, January 12, 2020

Let’s not say goodbye (Day 1088)

Let’s not say goodbye 
My hand still remembers yours
Strong as a robin’s wing
Cool and smooth as satin

Let’s not say goodbye
My eyes still remember yours
Dark with laughter
In a sunlit sidewalk cafe

Let’s not say goodbye
My heart still remembers yours
And how it took
And how it gave
And how it broke
And how it loved
And I cannot
Convince mine that you’ve gone


For Walter Rollin, my father, cheerleader, counselor, friend
November 27, 1932 – January 12, 2019




(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Saturday, January 11, 2020

Recommendation (Day 1087)

Listen to me   open the book 

in your empty house   haunted 

by that stainless steel bowl 

on the vinyl floor   in a corner 

of your disused kitchen   open it 

and take your time   don’t skip 

ahead   the end will come 

soon enough   though 

you will probably 

have figured it out by then


(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Friday, January 10, 2020

Dead center (Day 1086)

recognizing dead center 
every hour 
every sentence uttered 

imagining freedom 
from barbed wire
and barbed words 

plunging into the work 
no time for the missing
at least  not now

this deep hunger 
for a forgotten doorstep 
told me more than you may 

notice  half of me  eclipsed 
by my own experience  
sorting truths 

while you try to make others 
understand   we’re not 
so different  so alone


(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Thursday, January 9, 2020

Cento 43: Words alone (Day 1085)

four and twenty hours out 

of a rich (and broken) love   


riding churning waters 

and lightning   undulating 


around one corner 

after another   they were


confident as blackbirds 

then   demanding as crows   


words alone could unravel 

their well-tangled skein


© 2020, by Hannah Six

Image: Winslow Homer, Red-winged blackbirds (1886),

watercolor, Philadelphia Museum of Art





Wednesday, January 8, 2020

Raised voices (Day 1084)


Once again, They are crying, 
upstairs. Raised voices, harsh 
words. She looks away, 
dismayed, embarrassed, 
he turns up the music. 
From time to time, passing 
in the hall, everyone smiles, 
talks about the weather— 
as if he doesn’t know, 
as if she hasn’t been forced 
to listen to every ugly thing 
They say to each other, 
believing that no one can hear. 

© 2020, by Hannah Six