Conversation (Day 464)

Slithering vines still.

A conversation begins.

Listening to stones.

Careless, current slows.  

Diffident flames stir cool air.

Smoke winds like sorrow.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap/Pixabay

Ever (Day 442)

Sun sliding

behind the hills, 

we sat 

on the floor, 

knees crossed, and 

you told me that 

if I asked you to 

stay 

you would 

throw it all away 

for me. 

Why didn’t you

leave then? 

Could you not 

see that 

by giving up 

your own dreams, 

you were 

also damning mine?

Or didn’t you

understand that

what I meant

when I asked 

you not to leave, 

was: Ever.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ribastank/Pixabay

In the Second Place (Day 431)

...in the first place, she said 

to the window, the violet desert 

night, her flushed face mirrored 

back in a reflection, where their 

eyes met. And, in the second, 

you don’t even know who I am. 

A swell of annoyance, or maybe 

it was boredom, lifted her off 

her feet for a few seconds, and 

suddenly, she could see herself 

from outside, from out there where 

stormclouds of stars piled up on 

the horizon, where a hot wind 

sipped sweat from your skin so 

quickly you never felt a prickle, 

where that silvery road unwound 

like a mystery, northward, over 

a series of rocky hills.

Outside, where the scrub brush 

met the drive, two glowing green 

eyes appeared like magic. They 

seemed to be looking directly at 

her, shimmering in rising waves of 

ambient heat. She gazed back, 

momentarily unaware of the man 

waiting for her to further explain 

herself. The green eyes blinked 

once, twice—then vanished as 

she stepped out into the evening

closing the door firmly behind her.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: fancycrave1/Pixabay

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

Imagine the elephant’s mouth (Day 354)

Ladies, the surest 

way to a man’s 

heart is through 

a musical. 

I need you to 

tail the bad guys 

while I 

ride on ahead.  

Absurdly amusing, 

how she used 

the pinking shears

today.

A number of 

details in 

the Lincoln Tunnel 

speak to me 

of love.

Imagine, 

the elephant’s mouth

smelling heavily 

of cloves.

Pull over here

for a moment, dear,

won’t you?

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six

Image: Schuetz-Mediendesign/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

Cat (Day 326)

Awake?

Get up.

Asleep? 

Not now.

Come here 

and pet me—

no, not there!

Fill my food bowl.

Scoop my box.

Stop knitting socks

and play with me, 

but only if we 

play the game 

you don’t enjoy.

Not with that toy!

Some wet food. 

NOW.

I’m cold, 

your lap Is warm.

I’m hot, please move 

your arm away.

Don’t pick me up

or try to hold me.

You’ll be sorry!

Brush my fur.

Not with that brush!

Now, come to bed—

I’ll purr for you,

unless you really

want me to.

For Charley, who inspired this poem. 

Today.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Jump high the stairs (Day 274)

jump high the bleached and splintered stairs

today was so many no’s and don’ts

and now the children are poison darts

and now she come here and just give me a hug

no really that’s what she said

the parents know that water’s good

and beating on the window 

set the crickets down with heavy sun

squeaks and whistles rattling every tree

i won’t back up ‘til the battle’s won 

and here I sit

come on let’s go out front ‘cause she’s only five 

or ten minutes away

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: KRiemer