alone in a tumbledown barn
windy frozen vital missing
an eclipse in reality the moon
red as candle wax over rooftops
making them possible
harder to catch killing time
conversation nothing really joy
is their calling reliable unfinished
unlimited a mist of reality
drifts through broken windows
cementing the panes in that way
two people can be joined
together by a secret or a lie
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
You’re wondering why
you kept her number,
why everyone you know
seems to be going
somewhere, while you
stand, ankle-deep, in
quick-drying concrete.
The lights are out, but in
the candlelight you can
see a glimmer—her eyes
are open. She is awake,
sitting cross-legged
on your floor, waiting
for you to say something.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
loosely twined pearls
around fingers cat
around ankles crossed and uncrossed
silk shadow creases
in corners and edges
of light pools spreading splashing
against walls unpainted red by now
where figures pose unposed
gathered symbiotically
without thought to the whims
of creation or creators
whose needs were irrelevent anyhow
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Delphin Enjolras, Evening Party
Via Wikimedia Commons
arms laden low-slung day-glo faces
intent on the next stop dragging
children off their feet leashed
dogs straining toward each other
leaning in to greet a new day’s odors
and savor the contraband traces
of a foreign land called Night
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Garry Knight
via Wikimedia Commons
He had never mastered the art of breathing
underwater. While others dove and splashed
around him, he waited at the edge, feigning
indifference to the weightless floating and
raucous games in which his friends indulged,
though he was often invited.
Seldom did he dip his toes in the gelatinous
pool of emotions, fearing the undertow might
draw him to its emerald heart, where he would
be utterly and forever at odds with the patterns
of light dancing across the sandy floor.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: CoYep/Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)
but swimming we grasp the waves
to stay aloft
legs softly blurred dangling
in the singing mist below
we close our minds to gravity’s pull
allow ourselves
to roll and sway with the arcane
rhythms of the planet’s respiration
like seasoned travelers
who read their morning papers
standing astride
the aisles of rattling rambling trains
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Spencer Watson (@thebrownspy)
via Unsplash
You often felt you owned it:
your brilliance
toes tickling a dance floor
or a scuffed and rosined stage
making art so you never felt
what was better left
alone except for
those small dark possibilities
you danced untethered
to your almost-home
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
A sticky south wind chuckles
at flocks of shining tourists
splashing beach-bright clothes
all over a wide bleached
boardwalk smoothly sulky
the younger people vault over
sagging fences impatient for
the waves and the secret
places their hands can linger
underwater after an hour or so
the crowd grows restless
shifting and sighing
on the lumpy sand some even
wondering why they came for
another vacation at the shore
and whether this one week
can be worthy of so much
anticipation while others
sprawl and sink into
their boredom clutching it
as if it were the one-and-only
life boat on a rapidly-sinking ship
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Spiterman/Flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0)
When it was your turn you made
your own plans
not quite the way you envisioned this
day of course back when you could
still squint into a sun-drenched future
rife with years of unfraught celebrations
as the ferry pulled away leaving
in its dark wake a trail of intricate lace
rain poured from lavender-gray clouds
slumped low over the bay
and the gentle pitch and roll lured you
to the bow face streaked with rain
and spray salty as tears you marveled
at how the years had passed since
you last thrilled to mountainous swells
face-forward out into a granite sea
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Lumpytrout (CC BY-SA 4.0)
via Wikimedia Commons
The unwritten unwritten
the unpaid unpaid
the raw uncooked
beneath a blue-gray blanket
of clouds the land settles
broad brown hips
of hills stalwart
and voluptuous remain
unlooked at unappreciated
a hunger unfed
clutter unsorted and I
out of sorts (like my mail)
take another breath and try
to begin again
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Shenandoah National Park
Courtesy US NPS
December is drawing
the sharp edge
of its blade
across an afternoon
gently falling.
Can these be the same trees,
spindly and dull
from which
—last May—a harvest
of birds were calling?
And this field, uncut
and stunted
by the cold—
could fireflies have risen,
blinking, from it,
just as the rose moon was
dawning?
To compare is to invite
sorrow for tea,
and He is not welcome here.
Still, knowing that somewhere
a fragrant garden
is in bloom, a breeze is
balmy, while one shovels
snow and ice
is galling.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Ray Hennessey (CC0 1.0)
It is quiet, inside.
We are hiding
from the noise,
and calling it
peace. We are
pretending that
the world is not
burning.
Shhh...
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
I gaze I wander along
flowing looping lines
watching them change
and grow and flutter until
persistent they find a way
to invade my quietest hours
even accompanying me
on night-long journeys
through a bright clutter
of undreamt dreams
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
Do not misconstrue his inability to say
what must be said. It’s not his fault,
you know. He is a hummingbird,
buzzing from one dangling plastic
container to the next, always hoping
someone remembered to refill that
lurid nectar on which his life depends.
© 2018, by Hannah Six
