All Those Beautiful Places (Day 424)

I was there when 

that small warm bundle 

called life dangled limply 

in your arms a load of laundry 

bound for the line or a chilly 

expression of reticence on 

a face once generous 

as grandma’s whipped-cream 

fudge and fresh-from-the-garden 

berries served sunwarm with 

our breakfast every morning 

the artist doesn’t tell she shows
and deserves a snap of the fingers 
for all those beautiful places 

where magically even when 

there is no peace

there is still love

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

A story worth telling (Day 346)

This woman is reading 

aloud 

to her children,

after working a 10-hour day.

This woman is a warrior.

She is on a mission of

wisdom, knowing deep in her 

battered and dazzling soul,

that there’s no better way 

to teach them 

about the world, about

how to stand up and

how speak out, 

how to engage 

how to help and

how to fight for 

what they know 

is right, and 

how to know 

what is right. 

“Imagine,” she says to them, 

without saying the words.

“Imagine how all of our 

voices coming together 

could lift us up, and 

break us out. Now 

that will be a story

worth telling.”

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: “In the end...” by Doug Youvan

Her Place in the World (Day 293)

She is small, 

barely tall enough 

to reach 

the first swinging hoop 

from the little metal platform 

welded onto the jungle gym. 

So, when the big 
blond-haired boy 
with the raspy voice 

taunted her, 

she froze. 

And when he shoved her 

out of line and 

she landed hard 

on the concrete, 

she remained silent, 

and the other children 

did nothing, 

their eyes averted 

in fear and shame 

and the mild disgust 

the world feels for victims. 

Later, she recounted the story 

while her mother and 

grandmother cooked dinner. 

When she showed them 

her scraped elbow, 

her mother said: 

"What did you do 

to make him shove you?" 

Her grandmother added: 

"He sounds like 

a very sad little boy. 

You should pray for him." 

That day she learned 

about her place 

in the world, 

about what she could 

expect, and what she 

should tolerate. 

So, when her husband 

screamed at her for buying 
creamy peanut butter 

instead of crunchy, 

she found herself 

thinking how sorry 

he must be, and that

she needed to pray 

for him.

Intimate-partner violence (IPV), or domestic violence (DV), affects all of us in some way. 

For example: mass shootings significantly impacted children: 25 percent of mass shooting fatalities (211) were children. This is primarily driven by mass shootings related to domestic or family violence, in which over 40 percent of fatalities were children. (EverytownResearch.org)

 For a wealth of information about IPV/DV, or to seek *confidential* help, please visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline website, or call the Hotline at 1-800-799-7233

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Andreas160578

By the Phone (Day 285)

Upstairs  

in the spare 

room   imagining

your face 

with a mixture 

of dread 

and longing

I hang up 

the phone   cord 

snaps back 

into place   

  phones 

    had 

     twisty 

 spiral

    cords 

  then   

and tiptoe down

the stairs 

because my mother 

forbade me to 

call boys   I was 

supposed to wait  

for them 

to phone me   

but    somehow

the threat of 

being alone always 

terrified me 

more 

than my mother’s 

quick temper.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Free image via MaxPixel

Before 1980 (Day 235)

Lake-shore picnic lunch

Among beloved strangers

Snowfields in summer

Memories drift, floating home

Spirits caught in ash and stone

In memory of my uncle, Gordon H. Fiske, who passed away this morning.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Lyn Topinka

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

I Am Cold Weather (Day 223)

Today I am cold weather   damp 

and wind-chimes   after that picturesque 

and uninteresting summer

     What can I say

     Outside cars read the street like Braille 

     running wet fingertips

     over the night she was buried 

and I climbed into my mother's lap 

and she held me 

and I cried

and then she dipped my fingers 

and toes in warm honey

and brought me upstairs 

and tucked me in to bed again

     Gone now   like summer 

and I am wearing thick woolen sweaters 

and socks to warm  

and I'm in bed

     —warm cat cool sheets—

and I miss the days when everything 

     seemed like it would be all right 

     for a while

and we were so happy 

and wet 

and windblown 

     into that narrow restaurant

     in a gust of leaves

and umbrellas insufficient for 

     an oncoming hurricane

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Roman Boed

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