Longed for (Day 363)

night imploded 

into sleek weeks 

of longed-for lethargy 

a million stars became 

months of quiet musings 

yet in the end it was not 

my lover blackberry-ripe 

with unnewsworthy stories 

who constrained my heart 

it was my friend

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

This is how history works (Day 345)

This is how history works.

Disgusting, irresponsible 

requests that start to sound 

strange to your ear, 

after the fourth

or fourteenth 

or forty-thousandth time

you hear them repeated.

Men and women, reading

aloud from storybooks,

not reading what needs

to be read, deciding 

things best left undecided 

by anyone but God 

(or whatever you prefer 

to call the great Mystery),

such as, “When does life start?”

or “What is the meaning of art?”

There are no set boundaries,

no term limits on genius,

where literature,

or music, or architecture 

are concerned.

Imagine, then, the absurdity

of government, among a people

unwilling to lift up 

their voices to demand justice 

for their neighbors, 

their friends, 

their fellow citizens.

Look: They cannot figure out

how to feel about a painting 

of a Campbell’s Soup can,

or Crayola’s new crayon colors, 

or whether Disco should have died.

That is how history works:

It is a beautiful and flawed

choose-your-own-adventure 

tale, and we must find a way 

to decide.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Campbell’s Soup Cans (1962), by Andy Warhol

via Wikimedia Commons

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

1: Him (Day 303)

Snowflakes fall like coins 

from a lurid coral sky. 

Left out in the cold, 

he chases them, 

grasps at the shattered air. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019 via Pixabay

Wanderings (Day 296)

rain soaked wanderings and clear 

soft mistakes  summer traced 

familiar playground paths where 

flooded streams of shade spread 

in a flood  returning sleep suggests 

once steady worlds of gardens cooled 

by the familiar fluttering moon 

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Image: PatMorgan

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)

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

Sea-swept (Day 279)

they danced at midnight

on a sea-swept isle  all coral 

haze and lagging rhythms

less than one day’s sail beyond

the bounds of measurable time

into the early morning 

hours like embers glow 

their rolling hues diffused against 

the crumbled walls of a secret 

beach embraced by headlands 

and a jealous sky   they unwrapped 

the gifts they carried  unfolding 

tales half by half  attentive 

to the rushing surf  

each listening  awestruck  to the sea

hushed and tender  whispering 

from deep inside the chambered shell

of the other’s upturned heart

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Free image via Pexels

Gate (Day 278)

Metal on metal

Sagging gate peals when opened

Coming  or  going

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Momentmal

Into a Gorge (Day 270)

Last night I 

         subsided into 

a gorge  dark  

  rose and 

     bronze and 

sand  fine and soft 

and deep   closing 

warm  around 

my ankles. Now 

summer  rolling up 

   the snow a dripping 

      towel of cold grit 

and no color on 

   the trees 

coming  tall 

as a wave  high as 

   a delirious flock 

      of Canada geese  

majestic  wise 

carrying our dreams 

to heaven.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: brh1028

Shortcomings (Day 266)

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

I Still Smile (Day 265)

I still smile

When i think 

of you, I still feel

the key ring on my 

middle finger, biting into 

the tender neighboring flesh,

the weighty beige phone 

receiver in my hand.

I still see 

your face, tanned

and rosy-cheeked from 

the bitter cold, and how it 

paled beneath that particular 

shade of fluorescent light from 

overhead, drained of color, still 

glowing when, eyes flashing, 

you broke into one of 

your knowing smiles.

I still hear 

you talking, voice low

against the ringing soprano

chorus of crickets, when, on 

a slow night, we might find time 

to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool

air fortify us for our next foray.

I still feel 

the thrill of the walk

—through the dark streets 

echoing with roiling engines, ribbons 

of music, and laughter from the riverbank—

to your door, where my flat, dull evening 

would transmute into fireworks over 

the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out, 

into a cheap 10-watt bulb.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lasvegaslover

Dripping Words (Day 260)

old-fashioned roses 

russet pathway 

wends  hard-edged 

encircling a bench 

we chose in glossy 

April’s warmth  coffee 

cups in hand  legs 

splayed casually  

sunshine fierce  naïve 

and future-bound  

doubtless   in cocoons  

humming and content  

dripping words that 

never mattered as much 

as what we meant

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

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

Patience (Day 232)

Collecting damp grass 

clippings on her hands, 

sweet Patience cartwheels 

into the clear 

evening, and nods to 

the butterfly circle. 

Wise, they may be, 

she knows, but excessively 

fond of treacle. Eyeing 

their clutter of clumsy wings, 

she says, to herself: 

“And it shows.” 

In their gossipy klatsch,

the mavens sip tea, 

while catching their friends 

telling lies. 

Fluttering, feigning, reluctant 

to reveal what each knows 

is her own thin disguise, 

they reign over the lawn, 

where Patience is 

yawning, stretched out

beneath a ring of

portly lepidopterans.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: public domain

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