World Like a Cat Toy (Day 313)

Sometimes the world 

feels like a cat’s toy, 

a little blue-green ball, 

new, shiny, frantically 

spun about for a while, 

then batted under the bed 

and soon forgotten. 

For weeks, months, or (yes), 

even years, the toy remains 

inert in dust-laden darkness.

But, on a far-off moving day, 

someone may find it, 

pick it up, and say, 

“Hey, remember this?” 

Then, once again, the little ball 

will enjoy more light and 

find renewed favor, and be 

maniacally spun about, until 

it is batted under the bed again.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Moritz320

Commuter (Day 295)

I remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 

and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 

and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 

collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 

a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 

of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 

got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 

at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 

travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 

parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

Secret Roads (Day 288)

Trickling valleys slide

toward the water, dark 
as cedars standing 

sentinel, concealing 

secret roads 
and urgent passageways, 
branches 

calming the nervous, 

fog-brightened night.

Here, joy turns 
to wonder, grief 
to contemplation. 

New growth, a tender 
haze of green, emerges
before the forest’s 
detached gaze, 
in stillness,
ancient consolations.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

First Cup (Day 284)

morning blue 

as twilight 

first sunbeams 

kiss my cup

ghostly steam 

pirouettes

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: bark via Flickr

Haiku for Day 267

Downpour of darkness  

Inviting elk to forage

Antlers pale as smoke

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: skeeze via Pixabay

Indulgence No.1 (Day 228)

Deeply past nightfall.

Each page whispering secrets.

Weightless, fallow hours.

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: Pete Souza

Chrysalis (Day 220)

From all sides 

beleaguered  he curls inward 

sea anemone  protecting 

its tender center  

chrysalis  undefended  vulnerable 

somehow valiant in pure 

inevitability  facing down storms  

exposed  yet diffident  

his strategy  detachment 

rolled and coiled 

in deepest dark 

in singular solitude  it begins 

in a crystal spark 

a listless centering  elemental 

listening will be his 

salvation  intuition  the springtime of 

his moist-winged fluttering  

carried aloft 

by a grateful current

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: msandersmusic

Up Late (Day 203)

Last night, we stayed up

late, my companions and I,

lulled into insomnia by

some stark-raving guy. 

Drawn like moths to 

the flickering blue screens

we held, lights on, tethered 

to the world by a handful of

characters, all chattering

away, every line rippling

with anxiety. Journalists,

artists, hucksters and me,

a smattering of fear-mongers 

among us, a meeting 

of minds like and unlike. 

Nonsensical rantings had 

scared us, but by midnight, 

it took effort to care. And that

saturation is the strange stuff 

of nightmares, the creep of 

ambivalence more dangerous

than words.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: by 809499, via Pixabay

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

In Darkness, He (Day 170)

Often, 

in darkness, he 

sends his dogs 

to dig, to jail, 

or to crop, and 

until they return,

muzzles coated 

with mud and worse, 

he threads 

his needle 

with the guts 

of freedom.   

Headed uphill, 

he believes he is

given to empathy. 

He nods to 

the left  

a motion he wants 

to make, but he insists, 

they

may not skip

the vows 

of trust and loyalty.

In darkness, now, he

aims 

his twisted dream 

at certain angels 

of our better nature,

and tightens

his finger.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original Image: Benjamin Applebaum

Like a Hiss (Day 162)

Shhh… Listen 

closely. Be still

and wait. Can you 

hear it? The whoosh

—or is it more

like a hiss,

or a sigh—a stroke

of air, dark and 

clear. Can you 

feel it blowing 

against your face, 

lifting fine hairs 

off your neck 

and temples, 

where salt crystallizes 

when your fiery

skin cools? There 

is an opening, wide

and fading to pitch 

blackness, a gaping

maw, like the mouth 

of a cave, or 

a dragon, exhaling 

and inhaling at 

the same time, a gasp 

of hunger, or an aching 

breath of vast relief.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Hole of the Priest, Parque Nacional dos Campos Gerais, by Danielfotografo

West Side, 9:00 p.m. (Day 160)

 

They turn, 

moon faces pale 

in the darkness, 

black hollows 

where their souls 

should burn, they 

turn, and 

their faces turn, 

as we amble 

past, the beautiful 

dog and I. 

Leafy hands, 

unpruned, reach 

upward to pluck 

stars, one by one, 

from the clear sky,

—children, picking 

paste gems from 

flaking gold—

they reach, up 

and out, toward 

and away from, 

spooking the dog, 

but I know 

we will soon pass, 

soon be home, 

and the pale 

moons will still 

have only holes, 

the branches remain 

unrestrained. 

A dog barks twice, 

squeals, and we 

are grateful 

for narrow, steep 

stairs, from the top 

of which, we could 

continue watching them, 

if we cared to.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Koszalin Street, at Night by Kalasznikow47

Luminarias (Day 156)

 

Clinquant luminarias twist the heavy

heat,

sending strange spirals of scented 

smoke

climbing lazily toward the dancing

stars

reflected in the water’s tender 

veneer.

From time to time, winds work the

surface,

the way a gentle breath stirs and

lifts 

the silk-fine strands of hair along your

neck

when we whisper together in the living

darkness.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six