Distress (Day 365)

I did not think 

we’d come

to this

I did not think 

we’d last 

so long

as a first kiss or 

a sparrow’s song

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image via Pexels

The Unthinkable (Day 361)

How do you find 

language to describe 

what no longer exists?

Is it a vacuum?

An absence? A lack?

How will you

explain what it was like 

when morning came 

and you found yourself

unable to pronounce

the title with

<his name>?

Unable to link words,

one by one, into 

a chain strong enough 

to safely convey 

the unthinkable?

What is it like for you

to imagine that 

dwindling time 

when the acknowledged

remained unimaginable? 

When dead-eyed, vapid,

and vacant were animated, 

instead, by mercy, 

intelligence, and humanity? 

Will you help them, 

one day, understand 

how we allowed our 

pure freedom

to be smeared and sullied

by the sticky fingers 

of unheeded warnings?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: djacoby/Pixabay

World Like a Cat Toy (Day 313)

Sometimes the world 

feels like a cat’s toy, 

a little blue-green ball, 

new, shiny, frantically 

spun about for a while, 

then batted under the bed 

and soon forgotten. 

For weeks, months, or (yes), 

even years, the toy remains 

inert in dust-laden darkness.

But, on a far-off moving day, 

someone may find it, 

pick it up, and say, 

“Hey, remember this?” 

Then, once again, the little ball 

will enjoy more light and 

find renewed favor, and be 

maniacally spun about, until 

it is batted under the bed again.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Moritz320

His Rendezvous (Day 310)

In the end he was quickly granted his 

rendezvous   saying little   connecting among 

the ghosts of school-room conversations after 

his charade of rochambo crushed the bodies 

of those children with their knowing eyes.

Little by little we begin to break ranks   

mothers unable to restrain us with the old 

dreams we left behind in their wombs   

fingering our superstitious thoughts like prayer 

beads and furrowing our brows when we realize 

none of our messages have been opened   

none received. 

And yet many linger in the hard winter sun

waiting to see   knowing that men such as 

these always do themselves in by 

murdering what they have already won 

during a time when they believe they haven’t.

Note: This poem was inspired by a few random lines

of The Complete Essays, by Michel de Montaigne, 

which I chopped, scrambled, and tinkered with for

an enjoyable hour or two.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image based on a photo by Gage Skidmore

Moderate Cruelty (Day 280)

Tepid, aglow with the cuprous 

sweat of self-loathing, you 

resort to moderate cruelty 

again and again

that was always your way

of containing the steady trickle

of commentary—expert at everything

you do—that accrues 

in the pit of your stomach

day by day and no matter where

you look you are insensate 

to the shards of beauty 

that slice and snag your skin

with every blundering step you take

unable to understand that there 

are miles of possibility

at your feet

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: White House dot gov

Dark-eyed boys (Day 277)

two dark-eyed boys

their father 

at the window parting 

red curtains  kick a ball 

where the greenest grass 

grows  watered by tears 

she cried when she kissed them 

goodbye  there  then

all she could hope for was 

a warm day  lamenting that  

during the rain  they had 

not been able to play outdoors

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image:sasint

Against a Buttery Sky (Day 276)

Above the orchard, tall 

trees against a buttery

sky, sating my spirit’s

deep hunger, portending 

umber flanks 

of gourd-round hills,

a pasture dotted 

Heaven, northern dusk 

fog-sheltered need, 

won as we cried for more, 

but by dawn, still and

you should see 

where, small and fragile, 

it lives on in me.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: racorvese

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 

as well as 

sit  a pale egg 

unhatched 

the poison slurry 

fills the cracks

appalling  we are 

spit-and-polish 

egos  where a small 

few head 

he goes all in  

they follow even unto

silver-plated truth he 

traded in 

exchange for 

long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Maybe We Are (Day 236)

Maybe we 

are not all 

the same. 

Maybe 

some of us 

are upside 

down 

or inside 

out. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-photos

Indulgence No.4 (Day 233)

it helps

to flood the stage 

with protest

like hearing every side 

from the wide clear skies  

of my late 

summer 

autumn  

falling  we went out 

undisguised  sweated  

and when 

we came home 

feeling angry  vile  

riled like 

a snake   

an unexpected freight train   

like the days 

of warm rain beyond 

the bruise-green clouds   

we had a precedent 

for the day 

of the storm 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Free-Photos

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

Again, He (Day 227)

Today, the voice

On the radio said

It was a great thing

For everyone to see.

Again, he

Looked in the mirror 

of tragedy,

And could only see 

his own good fortune.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original image: Fortepan