The Beast (Day 405)

The beast is stirring. Do you hear her? 

Roaring like war in the middle distance?

Ouroboros consuming her own tail, we 

saw her curled and assumed she dreamed, 

spanning the globe with her iron grip, 

squeezing ever tighter as she slept, 

mistook her eternal cycle for a promise, 

assumed the promises she made she kept,

missed seeing the signs of life simply suspended.

The beast is waking. Do you hear her? 

Hissing and steaming from on high, 

Pele’s rapturous rest was interrupted, and 

with a great volcanic sigh she stretched and rose, 

forked tail unfurling slowly, blotting out the sun,

casting an insidious shadow we didn’t know 

would burn rather than freeze, would bring us 

to our knees, not to our senses, after all.

The beast is rearing. Do you hear her? 

Readying for battle on a field of fire we 

refused to quench, a nightmare no one believed 

would form again. Friends grow chill and soon 

their hatred blossoms into enmity. Enemies’ poison 

grows more deadly still. And we, the unprepared, 

freeze in her gaze’s glare, we helpless prey, 

assuredly the fierce predator’s intended kill.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Fantasy Dimentions

The Unthinkable (Day 361)

How do you find 

language to describe 

what no longer exists?

Is it a vacuum?

An absence? A lack?

How will you

explain what it was like 

when morning came 

and you found yourself

unable to pronounce

the title with

<his name>?

Unable to link words,

one by one, into 

a chain strong enough 

to safely convey 

the unthinkable?

What is it like for you

to imagine that 

dwindling time 

when the acknowledged

remained unimaginable? 

When dead-eyed, vapid,

and vacant were animated, 

instead, by mercy, 

intelligence, and humanity? 

Will you help them, 

one day, understand 

how we allowed our 

pure freedom

to be smeared and sullied

by the sticky fingers 

of unheeded warnings?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: djacoby/Pixabay

Sole Transformation (Day 360)

no longer is this 

our sole transformation

this agonizing feint 

so special so beautiful 

trusting in the lingering 

bands of shadows 

from stands of tulip trees

a story that may not be 

objectified 

best left in its natural state 

without humor 

or self-deprecation 

the vibrant location 

never required 

a single elaboration

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Vincent van Gogh, Farmhouse in Provence, 1888, 

oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC

Responsibility (Day 355)

Did you say yes, 

that day? 

Or did you say no?

Did you guess? 

Or did you go under-

ground, where, 

in the dark, you sought 

an answer from among 

yesterday’s ill-begotten 

remembrances? 

Then again, perhaps

you simply looked 

the other way?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: gladatony/Pixabay

Roy G. Biv Pt. 3: Yellow (Day 321)

Years ago, Mr P set detailed plans in motion,

To install his own president across the ocean.

He baited his hook with loans and promised power,

and, Lo!, caught some Republicans within the hour.

The ‘Pubs had been sidelined in 2008,

By a Black politician who filled them with hate.

With destroying his legacy as their guiding rule,

The party chose Roy as its figurehead fool.

The enemy-allies launched a massive attack.

There were murders, and robots—they held nothing back. 

Defaming opponents and promising the moon,

Roy yucked it up like a big orange buffoon.

Sure, they won, but most knew the election was potted,

And in all the best newsrooms, the scam had been spotted.

Soon Roy’s Russian ties became the main attraction, 

So the frenemies, frightened, cooked up some distractions:

They’d attack the defenseless, the children, the elderly—

In due time, they’d goad Kim into World War III.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (c. 1900) 

by W.W. Denslow, via Wikimedia Commons

Roy G. Biv, Pt. 1: Red (Day 319)

“I’m gonna turn back the clock,” Roy said,

“Or those Liberals’ll paint us Commie red!

Let’s go back to the days of old

When men wore guns, and coal was gold!”

“I’ll build a wall from sea to sea!

They’ll pay the bill, for us it’s free.

It’ll keep us in, and keep them out!”

The crowd cheered so, he had to shout.

“Those nasty women should be banned.

They dare presume to take a stand?

While, we’re at it, Muslims, too—

‘Cause we know what they plan to do!”

Soon, chants arose, of: “Lock her up!”

Rebel flags flew from pick-up trucks.

At racist rallies, all seats were filled.

In Charlottesville, a girl was killed.

Unbelievably, voters believed his lies,

And democracy, in darkness, dies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: “To begin with, I’ll paint the town red” 

A political cartoon by Grant E Hamilton, 1885

US Library of Congress via Wikimedia

His Rendezvous (Day 310)

In the end he was quickly granted his 

rendezvous   saying little   connecting among 

the ghosts of school-room conversations after 

his charade of rochambo crushed the bodies 

of those children with their knowing eyes.

Little by little we begin to break ranks   

mothers unable to restrain us with the old 

dreams we left behind in their wombs   

fingering our superstitious thoughts like prayer 

beads and furrowing our brows when we realize 

none of our messages have been opened   

none received. 

And yet many linger in the hard winter sun

waiting to see   knowing that men such as 

these always do themselves in by 

murdering what they have already won 

during a time when they believe they haven’t.

Note: This poem was inspired by a few random lines

of The Complete Essays, by Michel de Montaigne, 

which I chopped, scrambled, and tinkered with for

an enjoyable hour or two.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image based on a photo by Gage Skidmore

1: Him (Day 303)

Snowflakes fall like coins 

from a lurid coral sky. 

Left out in the cold, 

he chases them, 

grasps at the shattered air. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019 via Pixabay

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

How to Starve Your Demons, or Why I Stopped Looking at Social Media After the 2016 Election (Day 286)

How to Starve Your Demons, or 

Why I Stopped Looking at 

Social Media After the 2016 Election

When I look at you,

peacefulness recedes.

The turquoise seas dry,

revealing their soft

underbellies, which

harden and crackle, 

a vast desert of 

shattered tempered glass. 

When I look at you,

fragile as I’ve grown,

something in my heart

stirs—awakening

a sense of dread—that

lives apart from me,

a burning creature

eternal and dark,

who crept in and stayed

after he arrived.

So I endeavor

to starve my demon

by never looking,

even askance, at 

you, summoning, and

ever beckoning

concealed in your blue 

like a false hero.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Illustration for Edgar Allan Poe's 
"Descent into the Maelstrom" 

by Harry Clarke (1889–1931), 

published in 1919 (via Wikimedia)

Dark-eyed boys (Day 277)

two dark-eyed boys

their father 

at the window parting 

red curtains  kick a ball 

where the greenest grass 

grows  watered by tears 

she cried when she kissed them 

goodbye  there  then

all she could hope for was 

a warm day  lamenting that  

during the rain  they had 

not been able to play outdoors

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image:sasint

Decadent Elders (Day 273)

decadent elders tucked 

  away 

in black cashmere 

     ghostly 

clouds of smoke 

and silken shame 

       swirl  

excuses ugly 

in their chests none but 

the youngest 

meet the eye 

          glimmer 

of voices cherished 

      proclaim 

sparkling raised 

   to block 

the noonday sun 

     without 

that special something fun  

   you just can’t live 

so generously 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: The End of Dinner, 1913, Jules-Alexandre Grün

Half the Battle (Day 272)

When prepared     You’ve fought half the battle

Don’t you             Worry about me, while you’re away

Make your own    Luck, fate, or invention, they’re your’s, this

Day                       Break, these good intentions, the shiny gold trophy.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image of Puerto Rico: The Brandsmen

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

Haiku for Day 267

Downpour of darkness  

Inviting elk to forage

Antlers pale as smoke

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: skeeze via Pixabay

I Still Smile (Day 265)

I still smile

When i think 

of you, I still feel

the key ring on my 

middle finger, biting into 

the tender neighboring flesh,

the weighty beige phone 

receiver in my hand.

I still see 

your face, tanned

and rosy-cheeked from 

the bitter cold, and how it 

paled beneath that particular 

shade of fluorescent light from 

overhead, drained of color, still 

glowing when, eyes flashing, 

you broke into one of 

your knowing smiles.

I still hear 

you talking, voice low

against the ringing soprano

chorus of crickets, when, on 

a slow night, we might find time 

to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool

air fortify us for our next foray.

I still feel 

the thrill of the walk

—through the dark streets 

echoing with roiling engines, ribbons 

of music, and laughter from the riverbank—

to your door, where my flat, dull evening 

would transmute into fireworks over 

the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out, 

into a cheap 10-watt bulb.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lasvegaslover