After the Bookstore Closed (Day 230)

about an hour after 

our local bookstore closed

the sky darkened

to green   the wind came   sideways   

from nowhere   thunder 

racked my house and slam-banged 

around   an old man grumbling   

on a brittle winter day   so like 

human beings   their cultures gathered 

around clouds of voices   raising heat 

and ugliness   the sounds distress me   

my body reflecting   not just words but 

the humid heavy breath of the street   

blowsy   a little hot   they keep saying   

our bright star is exploding   our world 

set ablaze   eyes like deep pools 

of wisdom   and fascist fists are

pummeling my heart   if I can fight this 

I might stop falling into the jade sky   

and wake up warm and safe and dry 

but   on the other hand   we could be 

staring down the inscrutable

barrel of a millennial storm

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: terren

Summer's Song (Day 225)

Dry, sharp grasses bend.

Summer whispers, familiar heaven waits.

Stolid ponds gaze skyward.

Tiny blue-bellies do pushups on warm rocks.

Banal toads sigh among singing frogs.

(c) by Hannah Six

The Dog & I (Day 224)

You see, the dog 

        & I took 

                a walk 

        this evening 

Our neighborhood 

        came out 

                to greet 

       her—all of her 

favorite friends 

& she just 

        smiled & smiled

                with that 

        particularly canine 

breed of joy

At that moment

        a thought fluttered 

                 down & alit 

        on my shoulder: 

This 

is feeling 

like Everything is 

going to 

be 

all right 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lucky, by H. Six

I Am Cold Weather (Day 223)

Today I am cold weather   damp 

and wind-chimes   after that picturesque 

and uninteresting summer

     What can I say

     Outside cars read the street like Braille 

     running wet fingertips

     over the night she was buried 

and I climbed into my mother's lap 

and she held me 

and I cried

and then she dipped my fingers 

and toes in warm honey

and brought me upstairs 

and tucked me in to bed again

     Gone now   like summer 

and I am wearing thick woolen sweaters 

and socks to warm  

and I'm in bed

     —warm cat cool sheets—

and I miss the days when everything 

     seemed like it would be all right 

     for a while

and we were so happy 

and wet 

and windblown 

     into that narrow restaurant

     in a gust of leaves

and umbrellas insufficient for 

     an oncoming hurricane

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Roman Boed

Angels Admitted (Day 222)

In these hours of fascination 

the mountains, running north 

to south to north, have had 

the uncommon good sense—or 

imagination—to admit angels. 

Not to be left out, watery realms 

from oceans to streams also 

extended gracious invitations, 

but leave no doubt about it:

it was the mountains who 

started the trend. Now, when 

the very air seethes with wishes 

and threats, an angel on bended 

knee, can be found in every puddle, 

on every street corner. Do you doubt 

the truth of this? Then drive beyond 

the clipped seams of your cities, 

into a rolling countryside on a cool 

autumn morning. There, in the small 

valleys and gullies, where creeks trickle 

and rivulets flow, you will see, with 

your very own eyes: angels rising 

in ribbons from the earth, and 

on the hushed air, their misty sighs.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: CGCowboy

What You Saw (Day 218)

What you saw

through the glass

that night

eyes blazing

with bitter fear

What you heard 

that growl

white knuckles

hair flying howling 

with rage pacing 

and prowling like 

a caged tiger

What you saw

tore you apart

and engulfed you

engulfed your heart

but it could not 

will never 

take it 

away 

from us

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Cat (Day 216)

Takes his rightful place.

Ringed tail tip, slowly: right, left.

Imprints lap with fur.

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: Charley, H. Six

After I Left (Day 215)

One week after 

I left, I lay down

on the floor 

on a borrowed futon cushion 

in my new apartment 

in a building that used 

   to be a paper factory 

there were no sheets on my bed

there were no dishes in the kitchen 

there were no curtains on the windows

there were no books on the shelves 

there were no shelves 

there were no lamps

what was there 

was a blue candle 

   with three wicks

   in a wide-mouthed jar 

and a goldfish named Cal, 

   because I loved Cal Ripken,

   baseball hero with eyes like ice

   and a whole lotta heart  

that night, 

after work

after running up 

   the building’s stairs

after blowing out 

   each wick, I lay 

on the floor 

in the dark

and when the demons arrived, 

as expected, right on time,

I closed my eyes 

and listened 

to Cal, sorting through 

the gravel in his bowl, 

sucking up each pebble 

and spitting it out

plink…plink…plink 

and was glad for the company

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bowl of Goldfish, by Childe Hassam, 1912

Our Heroes (Day 214)

Are you, our heroes,

tumbling into dull despair?

Forgetting how 

the ripest fruits are worth 

the highest price?

Don’t fear the flashing 

lights that wake your 

bedroom walls at night.

Don’t gauge the value 

of the prize 

on the violence of the fight.

Do you recall how 

those you followed, 

merrily, shook with mirth—

imagining, with lust, 

the day the meek receive 

the Earth?

Allow the sky its blue, and 

clouds their varied shades,

your voice to shout 

your truth, authentic 

love to win the day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Parade for returning Apollo 11 astronauts, NASA

Are You the Same (Day 213)

are you 

the same one

or did i succumb  

to thin gray sleep 

at dawn  and dream

your name 

look back 

at the day  drawn 

bright  askew

how  in the damp 

blue evening 

we can be 

the light

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Antietam Battlefield, Robshenk

Remembering (Day 212)

Sing the robins  silver clouds 

dancing on the ceiling  there 

glancing through my window shrouds 

fairies spin in gentle prayer 

above the moaning  laughing throng

you arrive  fragile and sweet

played dolce  piercing a forte song

a clarinet weeps on a city street

memories dulled with exacting care

dreams worn soft as fine old lace

emboldened  wings beat at the air

sip teardrops  daintily  from my face

outside  a crowd  a protest  singing

inside  one soul  remembering

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: B W Townsend

Now (Day 211)

Now 

is the winter

of the Summer

of Love

and the summer

of the winter

of our discontent

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: zalazaksunca

With gratitude to Mr Hemingway and Mr Shalespeare for this poem's inspiration

Terrible Beautiful World (Day 210)

Terrible terrible 

beautiful world 

destitute of pity

futile to engage

the shallow 

end of humanity

unfathomably 

entrenched hearts 

embarrassingly brave

like thunderstorms

and lightning bugs

our disdain makes us 

luminous

but raging fighting

flash-bang spent

we may not last

the night

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Loavesofbread

Autumn Haiku (Day 209)

Autumn trickles in.

Light shifts, leaves rattle in wind.

Still, summer lingers.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo source unknown

I Can't Express (Day 208)

Your eyes   I can’t 

express  recall

myself another story 

it’s not always fair 

to see 

where were you

heading to shine 

let me light 

your path

through the forest

at night   how can 

we all exist 

in a world 

so full  so full

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Blue Fish Fly (Day 206)

Blue fish fly and catfish 

cry, on fence-posts 

beneath an apricot moon.

It’s June, and the world 

is beautiful—in bloom, 

our world is beautiful—

rising from peace, 

like a distant choir, listen 

when the wind shrugs 

her shoulders, the notes 

draped like lace on the trees. 

It’s Monday, the world is 

welcoming us, arms open, 

with a grandmother’s love, 

and maybe the worst is over, 

or almost, and maybe 

you know all the answers, 

things are already better, 

and maybe it’s not so 

frightening, watching 

the shining blue fish fly, and 

hearing the thoughtful catfish 

cry out their poems, 

high on their fence-posts 

beneath the apricot moon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Kolisberg via Wikimedia

A Single Source (Day 205)

Delight, divorce, devotion,
a cup’s a cup, no matter 

who finally pours the tea

fright, remorse, a common

notion, from a single source,

infinitude, a dream, a lie

resounding between your 

aspirations and my own, 

a treasure, found: a kiss 

goodbye, a shell, perhaps 

it simply seems full-blown, 

because your eyes are green, 

my own, the darkest brown

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-Photos via Pixabay

But, Still (Day 204)

Their souls cry: Of course,         we are

You may never see that              far

Or dance among cascading       stars

But, still, you should 

                         know better

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: skeeze, via Pixabay

Up Late (Day 203)

Last night, we stayed up

late, my companions and I,

lulled into insomnia by

some stark-raving guy. 

Drawn like moths to 

the flickering blue screens

we held, lights on, tethered 

to the world by a handful of

characters, all chattering

away, every line rippling

with anxiety. Journalists,

artists, hucksters and me,

a smattering of fear-mongers 

among us, a meeting 

of minds like and unlike. 

Nonsensical rantings had 

scared us, but by midnight, 

it took effort to care. And that

saturation is the strange stuff 

of nightmares, the creep of 

ambivalence more dangerous

than words.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: by 809499, via Pixabay