Holding On (Day 461)

Raspberry Beret.

Twenty-six flights of stairs.

Over and over.

Old proverb tells us:

Youth is wasted on the young.

Thoughtlessly squandered.

How else could it be?

It’s painful, living, loving.

If we knew, would we?

Lovers, parents, pets,

Smooth skin, stamina, joints, minds—

We learn to let go.

Think how tragic death would be,

If we died still holding on.

(c) by Hannah Six

Books Suit Me (Day 438)

books suit me like navy blue

I am told   choosing is simple 

akin to buying this small house

remember when you looked 

inside all those hollow sugar 

Easter eggs   too small or large

too hot or too cold  too close or

too far away   you were afraid 

no one would come to admire 

your lush garden on Sundays 

or read my favorite novel    after 

I’m gone you’ll find it falls open 

to the passage that inspires and

comforts me   like those photos 

of the old you   the fragrance of

libraries   this small hollow house

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Liz West/Flickr

Very Few Women (Day 416)

Very few women my age 

worked with visionaries. 

We were too busy: talking, 

frosting birthday cakes,

mopping the floors to

a mirrorlike finish. Really, 

being a housewife was

a very big deal. Respectable. 

My friends and I grew up 

looking forward to keeping 

our own homes. Now, it’s 

called something different: 

domestic engineering.

These young girls today, 

they think they want it all: 

Dating, college, husbands, 

corner-office careers, and 

then the kids, and those 

ridiculous jogging strollers—

they don’t run enough?

We could have done it all,

too, of course, but we 

focused on raising our sons 

and daughters to be less like 

their parents. Well, I for one 

am just glad I was able to be 

there for my children when 

they came home from school. 

The world is different now, 

though, isn’t it? Too expensive. 

And dangerous—all these men 

with guns, shooting everyone! 

Who knows? My turn may be 

next. Or yours. So, we’ll see.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ArtsyBee/Pixabay

Scattered (Day 367)

scattered like pebbles 

we don’t see

each other often 

enough

which translates to: 

you 

at your window 

watching a stream 

of stoop-shouldered 

students trickle 

along the sun-cracked 

sidewalk to and from 

the community 

college up the road

you like to say

we all have our own

lives but this

is not the one

I would have chosen 

for you

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Silken Grip (Day 364)

When the hand lets go   the fingers 

continue to meet   forming an O of 

conspiratorial approval   a manual 

wink   and the glass tumbles to 

the carpet   the clink of ice and 

slice of lime giving voice to 

otherwise-silent sin    the street 

outside fizzes with traffic and 

surely-fascinating conversation   

if only she could hear more clearly   

and she strains her ears to make out 

the words   When the mind lets go   

thoughts continue to seep out onto 

the page   into a world embraced by 

the jumble of thrice-used plastic 

bags favored by the divorced woman

d'un certain âge who abstains from 

the silken grips of costly leather 

satchels   and the need to sustain her 

well-heeled husband’s grim-lipped 

approval   for the freedom to let go

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Kelly bag

Wen-Cheng Liu/Wikimedia Commons

Missing our days (Day 350)

Growing older, is it 

as often about regret 

as it seems?

Nostalgia like an ache, 

missing our days and

our dreams because 

we cannot remember 

how to live 

the way children do? 

Trust me, 

it’s harder 

and easier than 

you know, spending 

your days missing 

other days, when 

all along your roots 

are cracking 

granite, seeking 

sustenance, sinking 

deep into your loamy soil, 

until you are 

bound

to your own time. And 

maybe that is the definition 

of wisdom.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Clean and muddy fingers (Day 343)

 

The sky fell upon them, 

sodden underbelly 

a vast, gray filet,

the sea darkening to slate,

churning waters flecked

with saline spittle.

She was in the garden,

kneeling on the grass

with her shears, gathering summer 

into a broad, petal-shaped basket,

which, in colder months,

would serve to carry kindling.

In bloom now: hydrangeas,

lush scoops of periwinkle 

and, her favorite, pink 

the exact shade 

of strawberry ice cream,

bushes sagging, heavy heads 

nodding under their burden.

He stepped through the gate

just as the clouds let go, 

releasing a torrential

exhalation of wind and water,

drenching the turbid world 

in an instant.

Three steps—he was at her side, 

reaching simultaneously for her 

and for the basket’s grip.

Their wet hands met, clean 

and muddy fingers intertwined,

As she rose, squinting at him 

through sheets of rain, smiling,

iron-gray licks of hair 

glued to her cheeks, 

each raindrop seemed to pause, 

silent, suspended.

And he realized that, to him, 

she had never looked more vibrant, 

more beautiful. Joy curled 

and swelled in his veins.

Then, with a whoop of exhilaration,

she took off running, 

toward the house.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

No Reason (Day 341)

When she feels unnecessary,

no reason for the oatmeal 

steaming in her bowl at breakfast, 

each plump blueberry, reclining 

in the gore of its own purple juices 

reminding her of the uselessness 

she senses under the thick cover 

of her life, the way her cat senses 

her feet beneath the quilts when

she climbs into bed, pouncing 

exactly where her unmoving toes 

are hidden, his sharp claws 

drawing tiny specks of blood that 

dry and darken on her pale skin. 

She knows it’s silly, allowing the cat 

to continue his nightly, slightly 

sadistic ritual, but when bedtime 

arrives, she does not chide him, 

because the game brings him joy, 

and this she feels, without actually 

thinking the words, makes her 

necessary, gives her reason enough 

to set her alarm for the next morning.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Twice as Cold (Day 327)

There, stern water, gray 

as iron, and twice as cold

—boldness froths like 

whitecaps at your telling, 

yarns of hard-won wisdom 

beat black pearls for treasure, 

chests of gold, hard-hearted 

gems for warmth, their value 

neither won nor sold, 

nor useful when you’re growing 

old with no delightful company 

to make you laugh until you cry, 

to warm your sheets when 

bitter cold creeps beneath 

your unsealed door.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Wolfgang.Mller54