Have You Ever (Day 430)

Have you ever come home exhausted from a trip 

to the grocery store right before Thanksgiving, 

having fought crowds of last-minute shoppers 

and carried in bag after bag of ingredients for

the feast—and dropped the bag of flour you just

bought to make pie crusts? The whoompf when 

it lands, the explosion of powder that covers 

everything and hangs in the air for hours so, 
as soon as you finish cleaning, every surface is 
once more covered in a white film that turns to 
glue when it comes in contact with water...?

You are that everlasting cloud.

Have you ever stumbled into the kitchen to make 

coffee at some ungodly hour, barely able to see, 

only to find a damp mass of yesterday’s grounds 

fermenting in the brewing basket? Wrinkling your 

nose at the oddly ashtray-like odor as you upend 

the filter into the trash, you manage to miss the bag 

entirely. Fine grains of wet coffee scatter, bead-like,

onto your bare feet and the kitchen floor, finding 

the most arbitrary and unreachable hiding spots, 

and crunching underfoot for days...?

You are those day-old grounds.

Have you ever invited a friend to dinner at your 
new home, freshly decorated in airy shades of cream 
and white, shown him to your favorite Italian-leather 
chair, handed him a glass of pinot noir, and watched 
in horror as he spilled it? He offered to pay all of the 
cleaning bills, but you graciously refused and, when 
he returned for another soirée, he exclaimed about 
how everything looked as good as new! (Because, you 
did not say, it is.). Once again, he relaxed into his seat, 
and once more his blood-red wine landed with a 
sickening splat on your white wool carpet, thin purple 
veins trickling down the buttery sides of your chair.
Have you gritted your teeth, reassured him, replaced 
your chair and carpet again—and then invited that 
same careless friend back to your pristine home for 
another evening of wine and cheese? No?

Well, my friend, neither have I. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: roegger/Pixabay

Bah! (Day 316)

How tiresome to be saying 

Merry Christmas again

when it should so obviously 

be June. Since late October, 

all the stores have been playing 

their jingly-jolly songs, 

shoppers humming along 

tunelessly, as they pause

to consider the merit 

of a bellydancing houseplant 

or battery-operated mittens. 

You don’t have to choose, 

on the spot these days. 

The good news is: 

You can buy that retro, 80s

neon sweater, just like the ones 

everyone hated in the 80s, 

even after you go home.

The joys of the season are 

upon us, and there’s always 

a reason to celebrate 

the people you love—as well 

as those you dislike, but 

are forced to buy gifts for by 

your boss or your spouse—with 

a mall-kiosk brie that not even

a mouse would find tempting.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Benh Lieu Song

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

Tiger (Day 307)

Some days it stalks me

spit-snarling tiger 

   treading water 

on which my boat balances 

   precariously 

longing breeds longing

longing like a thundering 

sand-storm   

grit plunders my tongue 

my teeth longing for 

the barely-detectable crunch 

of white buttercream icing 

   you can keep your garish 

   blue roses

the splashing ceases

in the silence something 

   submerged

noses the thin hull 

below my feet

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: cuzitwasgood 

Cynical Senryu (Day 298)

Exotic scenery

Fool without his dancing monkeys

Broken organ grinds on

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

Some Days Are Like That (Day 290)

Some days are like that 

special stone, gleaming 

like a gem among 

the shattered shells and 

flabby mats of kelp—

the one you plucked 

from the sand, and held 

out in your cold hand 

for my admiration, before 

tucking it in your pocket, 

for luck. Now, dry and

bleached, it lives deep 

in my dresser drawer, 

surprising me sometimes,

when it appears in my 

cold, outstretched hand, 

so far away from home.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Isle of Skye, FrankWinkler 

Five-thirty (Day 271)

The curtain of five-thirty 

in the morning is 

dark as pitch 

and quite opaque  though 

persistent dawn slips 

through at the edges 

now and then  drawn 

shawl-like against a curious 

draft  wool tickling and 

warming your shoulders  

at the window  other people’s 

dreams buffet the glass  

seductive  cold as snowmelt.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: US National Park Service

Orchard Waltz (Day 268)

October

windfall scents

crackling air 

red and gold 

apple  pear

cobblestones 

pave pathways

and clearings

cricket choir

announces

post-harvest 

consensus 

diffident 

bullfrogs grunt

their assent

in the wings

November

whispers

goodnight

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Derek Harper

Not to be Trusted (Day 252)

The fog of fellowship blurs every

hairline crack and fissure webbing 

the heart’s candy shell—proving, 

yet again, that feelings are amoebic 

in nature, and not to be trusted. 

Like liquor, they peel your throat 

and leave behind a burning uprising 

of shame. Even you, accountable to 

no one, will answer for your aimless 

laxity sooner or later, leaving us 

awash in your purple velour humility.

But we will not be brainwashed by 

the wine you pour, that ancestor of 

greatness whispers truths in our ears, 

even in public, we are the good guys

And we always win.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bhakti2

Stanislaus, 1970 (Day 251)

violent spring snowmelt

the river abducts those it wants

to its silent gravel bed

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: (c) 2005, Dick James

http://www.byways.org

Deplorable Old Men* (Day 250)

And now they’re saying             He is a racist.

Those guys, you know               How much money they make?

If I made that much money        I’d be thanking god every day. 

But these guys just want            To protest this and that.

Right, and he is the only            One who isn’t scared to say it.

Those guys make so much         Money.

You know what I say                  I say: You don't like America? 

You should get the hell out         Go to another country.                 

But what country                        Would want them?

(What country, indeed?) 

*A minimally edited/annotated conversation from rural America.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo of Kremlin: Francisco 

From the Left (Day 247)

Today slanted  golden  from the left 

throwing shade 

       on the world  unseen 

since yesterday   one step closer 

to completely abolished 

to silence 

to the barely audible 

hiss of snowfall and wind 

       like blades of blue 

           steel cutting deeply 

where sap surges and tingles 

soon turning 

crimson and flame   pushing life 

upward  throwing verdant foliage into 

relief  knowing that after 

the fall 

    the winter 

        the spring 

dazzling  two steps forward  to the right  

again  almost before it begins.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: tzevena

The Noun’s Rosy Glow (Day 246)

In the noun’s rosy glow,

legs stretched out 

in front of me, adjective 

minnows kissing my toes

under the cool gaze

of a tribe of water-spiders,

I lean back into the warmth

of an adverb, the one 

I’d been eyeing since 

we arrived almost 

a week ago. Bill Z. tells me

I shouldn’t run with such

a fast crowd, but I disagree. 

How would he know

of the pillowy comfort 

of the passive tense,

he who never dangled

with a participle in his life?

No, give me my sparkling

modifiers, my lazy verbs,

and I’ll leave the prickly

bits to him, standard-bearer

of brevity, killer of favorites,

unquestionable conqueror

of loquaciousness. 

In honor of William K Zinsser

to whom I promise to revise and edit this poem 

when (if?) the 1462 days end.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pexels

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

Indulgence No. 2 (Day 229)

Sirens, my old photos.

Luring me with silvery songs:

“Real love, true, forevermore—”

Leave me wrecked on the reef of Now,

Nightmares of happiness circling.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six