A Promise (557)

In the wee hours, 

somewhere along the way, 

I lost them. Just ran out. 

A tiny fish 

   in an endless ocean,

a poet, 

entirely off her words. 

They may never return,

   to comfort me 

when the world feels ugly. 

Or maybe,

   just maybe, 

like a pet bird who tired 

of its cage, they flew 

   out my window, and 

might be lured home with 

   a soft voice, 

   an aromatic treat, and 

   a promise 

of greater freedom.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain Pictures

Feels Like May [Day 356]

Deep in February’s chill

it feels like May might never bloom,

but even in the darkest room,

light lingers longer every day,

and bitter winter cannot stay

forever, tempt it as you will.

Soon spiders, with their silver strands,

will spin new homes with certain flair,

And house-finch songs will float on air 

Above the lilting mockingbird,

And spring, more now than a mere word,

Will enchant the lifeless land.

Meanwhile, resist the icy slope—

Don’t let despair obscure bright hope.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: pixundfertig/Pixabay

Greed (Day 294)

Everything some people have 

is not enough.

Insatiable, merciless, their hunger 

prowls without respite.

Mouths agape, squawking for 

more, they devour

the world whole, spitting 

out the bones. 

Afterward, when it’s obvious

there’s nothing left, 

they suckle and gnaw 

at the emptiness, 

until it turns them 

inside-out.

(c) by Hannah Six

Photo: Per Harald Olsen

Note: I wrote today’s poem in response to the following prompt from poet Kelli Russell Agodon:
“Write a seven-line poem about one of the 7 Sins that only contains seven words in each of the lines.”

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

All That (Day 254)

He shouldn’t undo all 

the trees, hears loons 

downstream, calling 

to his imagination, 

shallow beginnings in 

the leaves’ gilded edges. 

It was the hottest 

year he’d known, 

like Hell’s south side, 

none of the geese 

have flown, but that’s 

fake news. Like back 

when we cried for more 

butter on our bread, 

they couldn’t hear us. 

Our lives were just too 

small for all that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Nomeato

Those Pigeons (Day 253)

Change is somewhere 

unsuspected, in 

the flyover, appearing 

after years of show 

and tell, free love,

and Disney World, 

and doves, 

and sugarcoated tears.

The truth is closer 

to the pigeons living out 

their fervent dreams 

on Main St., USA,

yet not as cruel 

as politics, or weddings, 

puppies, fitful starts, 

or sweet and shallow 

broken hearts. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Deror_avi

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

Singing Alouette (Day 196)

singing Alouette   unaware 

of the threat behind the rolling words 

which   one day   she’ll wish she could 

forget   when the plucking of the little bird 

disturbs her brave heart   disrupts her 

tender soul   a bower of deep green 

dreams   hidden high among the pears  

seated on a V   longing for admittance 

to a world she does not know   for questions

proving what her answers show

pushing back a darkness she knows well  

a slippery pet  claws at her family tree

reckless   overwhelmed   she takes a stand

determined not to let her feelings show

she plants her feet   a warrior   sword at hand     

and stares down her fire-breathing foe

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

What You Do [with ME] (Day 131)

Violet-tailed Sylph, by Michael Woodruff

You read and you listen,

to old books and new podcasts;

you need something different.

You rely on the radio,

for company and staying in touch;

the best are weekend shows.

When it's rainy and gray

you don't mind like you once did

it breaks up the sunny days

You long for the forests

and hiking on steep rocky trails—

but still have the dawn chorus.

You strive to slow down,

it is harder than it sounds;

life goes on all around.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


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Two Haiku, Two Senryu (Day 124)

Photo: Marabuchi

Birds versus squirrels 

Locked in eternal battle 

Sharing the same tree

***

Rabbit stretches tall

Craning his neck to nibble

Sweet, young poppy leaves

***

Friday: hot humid

Saturday: sweater weather

Mid-Atlantic May

***

Chic woman with scarf

Insouciantly knotted

matches her flowers

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Each Moment (Day 108)

Photo: Sydchrismom

sip of hot     

    breath of balmy     

        brush of brown 

Harris tweed 

against your elbow 

    on the Metro

a glimpse of poetry 

in a book 

the middle-aged woman

seated next to you 

is reading    a few bars

of Mozart    an old 

recording    warm and 

    a little crackly in 

        the good way

a dog's floppy ear feels

sweetly warm 

    and silky when you run 

         it through your 

fingers    the merry dance 

of bubbles as you 

sip    prickling 

and sparkling    glow 

of blue twilight reflected

on fresh snow    and you 

pause    breathe   try 

to coax them into 

   lingering 

        just a little

             longer    but each 

moment 

is a 

    butterfly   alight 

on your shoulder or 

a song    seldom lasting 

long 

enough 

yet always flowing 

into the next

(c) 2017, Hannah Six

Tempest (Day 103)

Photo: Craig Lindsay

Thunderheads

piling high over the Appalachians, 

shades of 

old bruises: gunmetal, lavender,   

restless air quivers, 

birds swirl, like 

autumn leaves falling skyward,

suddenly: stillness

poised before the tempest's bittersweet 

atonement, 

absolving the world of its sins

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Kestrel (Day 75)

Kestrel hovers, calling

Calling in a plaintive cry.

Rides the wind upward

Until, wings tucked, 

He's falling, spiraling 

Bullet-like across the sky.

Other birds sit up, take 

Notice, chickadees chatter

Mourning doves sigh. 

Not for them this

Unfettered acrobatic

Winged delight. They find

Their strength among

Their numbers, migrating

By the dark of night. 

Eyes all glittering, they

Stop chittering, envying

Kestrel's solo flight.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six