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

Responsibility (Day 355)

Did you say yes, 

that day? 

Or did you say no?

Did you guess? 

Or did you go under-

ground, where, 

in the dark, you sought 

an answer from among 

yesterday’s ill-begotten 

remembrances? 

Then again, perhaps

you simply looked 

the other way?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: gladatony/Pixabay

Roy G. Biv Pt. 3: Yellow (Day 321)

Years ago, Mr P set detailed plans in motion,

To install his own president across the ocean.

He baited his hook with loans and promised power,

and, Lo!, caught some Republicans within the hour.

The ‘Pubs had been sidelined in 2008,

By a Black politician who filled them with hate.

With destroying his legacy as their guiding rule,

The party chose Roy as its figurehead fool.

The enemy-allies launched a massive attack.

There were murders, and robots—they held nothing back. 

Defaming opponents and promising the moon,

Roy yucked it up like a big orange buffoon.

Sure, they won, but most knew the election was potted,

And in all the best newsrooms, the scam had been spotted.

Soon Roy’s Russian ties became the main attraction, 

So the frenemies, frightened, cooked up some distractions:

They’d attack the defenseless, the children, the elderly—

In due time, they’d goad Kim into World War III.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (c. 1900) 

by W.W. Denslow, via Wikimedia Commons

Roy G. Biv, Pt. 2: Orange (Day 320)

The country awoke from its autumnal haze

Exurbs were elated, the suburbs unfazed.

As an old southern dynasty from New York City

Moved into the White House, we drew the world’s pity

Roy hit the ground running, his pen charged with ink,

Signed executive orders faster than he could think.

And the apathy that had infected the land

Dissolved in the face of repeals and bans.

Soon rumors arose of a modern Resistance.

And pussy grabbed back, despite the insistence,

Of a bunch of old White men on Capitol Hill,

That society’s downfall began with The Pill.

In blue-collar cities, and hungry coal towns,

Where the people believed that they’d been let down

By a government in which they barely took part— 

Folks insisted Roy had their best interests at heart.

Still, a question tormented those skilled at detection:

Had Roy slept with the Russians to win the election?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: This is Part Two of a seven-part series. 

You can read Part One here.

Roy G. Biv, Pt. 1: Red (Day 319)

“I’m gonna turn back the clock,” Roy said,

“Or those Liberals’ll paint us Commie red!

Let’s go back to the days of old

When men wore guns, and coal was gold!”

“I’ll build a wall from sea to sea!

They’ll pay the bill, for us it’s free.

It’ll keep us in, and keep them out!”

The crowd cheered so, he had to shout.

“Those nasty women should be banned.

They dare presume to take a stand?

While, we’re at it, Muslims, too—

‘Cause we know what they plan to do!”

Soon, chants arose, of: “Lock her up!”

Rebel flags flew from pick-up trucks.

At racist rallies, all seats were filled.

In Charlottesville, a girl was killed.

Unbelievably, voters believed his lies,

And democracy, in darkness, dies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: “To begin with, I’ll paint the town red” 

A political cartoon by Grant E Hamilton, 1885

US Library of Congress via Wikimedia

Hot Air (Day 318)

Reclaimed by that hot air

Our cool rain enriches the clouds

Fertile land grows arid

Their vast dams newly reinforced 

Water will not trickle down again

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via Pixabay

What is there left to say? (Day 291)

What is there left 

to say?

The walls 

   of grief 

   and greed 

were built to last. 

And those of us with 

picks and hammers

failed

to act 

fast enough to

   make a difference.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Click here to learn about gun violence and how you can make a difference.

Image: KariGamb08

How to Starve Your Demons, or Why I Stopped Looking at Social Media After the 2016 Election (Day 286)

How to Starve Your Demons, or 

Why I Stopped Looking at 

Social Media After the 2016 Election

When I look at you,

peacefulness recedes.

The turquoise seas dry,

revealing their soft

underbellies, which

harden and crackle, 

a vast desert of 

shattered tempered glass. 

When I look at you,

fragile as I’ve grown,

something in my heart

stirs—awakening

a sense of dread—that

lives apart from me,

a burning creature

eternal and dark,

who crept in and stayed

after he arrived.

So I endeavor

to starve my demon

by never looking,

even askance, at 

you, summoning, and

ever beckoning

concealed in your blue 

like a false hero.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Illustration for Edgar Allan Poe's 
"Descent into the Maelstrom" 

by Harry Clarke (1889–1931), 

published in 1919 (via Wikimedia)

Jump high the stairs (Day 274)

jump high the bleached and splintered stairs

today was so many no’s and don’ts

and now the children are poison darts

and now she come here and just give me a hug

no really that’s what she said

the parents know that water’s good

and beating on the window 

set the crickets down with heavy sun

squeaks and whistles rattling every tree

i won’t back up ‘til the battle’s won 

and here I sit

come on let’s go out front ‘cause she’s only five 

or ten minutes away

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: KRiemer

Half the Battle (Day 272)

When prepared     You’ve fought half the battle

Don’t you             Worry about me, while you’re away

Make your own    Luck, fate, or invention, they’re your’s, this

Day                       Break, these good intentions, the shiny gold trophy.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image of Puerto Rico: The Brandsmen

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

Wallflowers (Day 234)

This is what I 

find dismaying:

one year in, we’re 

still replaying 

stories of our 

past golden years 

and gossiping 

about our fears. 

What we need now

is a firm stance:

Wallflowers don’t 

get asked to dance.

Last time we were 

caught unaware—

next round will go

to they who dare.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Emma Frances Logan

At the End of the Pier (Day 194)

Sitting at the end of the pier, 

you and I shared a coke, 

our feet dangling in midair. 

We inhaled the faint mist rising 

from the water, which flowed 

with the tide, left-to-right, below us, 

and imagined boats drifting past, 

carrying people we glimpsed 

on the news, people without 

homes, some running from, some 

running toward. Then, we fell silent, 

as children do, who, like refugees, 

carry little sense of power, helpless 

in the face of pain and despair, 

never realizing that we, hands tied, 

offered more than the entire city behind 

us—hearts in our hands, ready to give 

or to take, as the situation required. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Alcatraz Sunrise, by Tony Webster

Can We Fight (Day 182)

How, how can we fight 

against figments of 

the night, creations 

of a disturbed lack 

of imagination—

every direction a knife, 

a noose, a fiery pit?

How can we live, 

banging up against 

thick-swarming lies, 

when everywhere, 

the buzzing, biting 

flies struggle to believe 

him more? Almost 

imperceptibly, the door 

is closing, and we—

we with our buckets and 

green garden hoses, are 

fighting a storming sun.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Gorgeous image of a 7/14/17 solar flare and coronal mass ejection: NASA (more here)