A Dreaming Sky (Day 466)

If the sky is a dreamer

what does that mean 

If the clouds are new

is this the same sky 

I used to look at 

the way children do  

the way I am  a dream 

the heavens are having   

gazing into the blue  

beyond which sailboats 

floated when I lay down  

decades ago  except 

those clouds are always 

coming and going 

without saying goodbye 

to one another   

The stars have had time for 

many dreams  So while I lay 

on my back  in the grass 

they are sleeping

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sebadelval/Pixabay

What Teachers Earn (Day 437)

My thoughts shift, recapturing 

Home. You were scat singing 

by an open window, saying Oops! 

whenever a song veered off in 

an arbitrary direction, 

or your thoughts wandered 

down the darkened street where 

I lingered among a scattering 

of streetlight puddles.

Hearing the neighbors whispering 

in their beds, I learned that 

our teachers earned less 

than the pale, sweaty man 

who managed the dollar-store, 

and considered bursting 

into tears at the brutal, repetitive 

nature of injustice. 

This is what we like: 

Holding hostage those who hold 

all of our knowledge, because 

they are too dangerous to trust

—except with our children’s minds 

and our own vivid future.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: tookapic/Pixabay

Almost Always True (Day 366)

The only things are bitter 

words and politics and cold 

blue sky aching tired and 

purring under a warm river of 

chocolate and chamber music 

reading and resting warmly 

wrapped in the things we used 

to love how they lifted and 

lightened our troubles until 

they merely floated away like 

feverish dreams and poetry 

winter and absinthe inspire 

and so that’s all I able to give 

to you but at least you knew

it was always almost true 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Advertising poster for "Absinthe Rosinette",

 published by Imprimerie Camis, Paris, circa 1900; 

via Wikimedia Commons

Under the Weather (Day 323)

Ears ringing like 

a copper kettle: 

Tea time! But no

one is boiling water.

Aching clouds settle 

into bed beneath 

drifts of dreams, 

of coral sand 

and oceans so bright

they hurt your eyes.

One sighs to think

of such things.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Unbroken (Day 299)

imagine

having a heart

that had never been

broken

or a spirit

that had known

only joy

the topography

of a life 

like that   

unmarred by yearning

unchanging   unearned

a bleak and  

featureless expanse

as far as the eye could see

like awakening

yawning and stretching  

into a nightmare

of eternal ennui

from a dream

rich with longing

and love

and loss

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

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

Talisman (Day 257)

I am unspooling 

into taupe  liquifying in 

an aqueous netherworld 

of subtlety  gentle understanding 

and ancient knowing dwell here 

among the crystal glimmers 

of possibility

don’t birth me into your world 

of fire  don’t drag me kicking 

and screaming 

against  against  against your  

hot  cold 

white  black  

right  wrong 

sears my eyes  their unquestioning 

allegiance wakes me late at night  

in a sweat of skepticism  

no  allow me to remain  

wallowing in what I do 

not know  wrapped in gray layers 

of of hidden meaning  

a gleaming necklace of human 

teeth my talisman against 

the dreams of others

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

The Talisman, 1888, Paul Sérusier

The Sweet Spot (Day 256)

The sameness vast       the sweet spot on the map 

of me alone                    the plans we made 

together gone                an opaque white curtain

and you my future        in a box to carry 

where I go only              snow empty and white

when I look forward     only a shadow of light

hardly a glow and          yet I know it does

I suppose that’s just      the way it goes

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original image: NairnBairn

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

Are You the Same (Day 213)

are you 

the same one

or did i succumb  

to thin gray sleep 

at dawn  and dream

your name 

look back 

at the day  drawn 

bright  askew

how  in the damp 

blue evening 

we can be 

the light

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Antietam Battlefield, Robshenk

Blue Fish Fly (Day 206)

Blue fish fly and catfish 

cry, on fence-posts 

beneath an apricot moon.

It’s June, and the world 

is beautiful—in bloom, 

our world is beautiful—

rising from peace, 

like a distant choir, listen 

when the wind shrugs 

her shoulders, the notes 

draped like lace on the trees. 

It’s Monday, the world is 

welcoming us, arms open, 

with a grandmother’s love, 

and maybe the worst is over, 

or almost, and maybe 

you know all the answers, 

things are already better, 

and maybe it’s not so 

frightening, watching 

the shining blue fish fly, and 

hearing the thoughtful catfish 

cry out their poems, 

high on their fence-posts 

beneath the apricot moon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Kolisberg via Wikimedia

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

How the Poem Gets In (Day 200)

First, the soft sound 

of stocking-footed steps, 

barely a breath on 

the concrete. A whisper, 

a slight change in the quality 

of light raining down 

through windows opened 

wide to capture even 

the shyest rays of sunlight. 

Like a gentle nudge—no, less—

a mellow pressing against 

my side, friendly as 

the family dog, but unknown, 

unfamiliar until now. 

Ears trained on the non-silence, 

straining to hear vague rustlings, 

I look up from my knitting,

blink as if shaken awake from 

a long, dreaming doze, alert 

to the stirred air, the charged 

atmosphere, and welcome my new 

guests, inviting them to sit 

on my velvet sofa, offering 

a fresh pot of tea. Sustenance, 

because the day is young, 

and we have work to do.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Simon Q

Difficile (Day 193)

threats (like red threads)

are frequent (text alerts)

and difficult (of hearing)

to identify (with)

and even (out)

to comprehend (one’s own existence)

among (a city of strangers)

the broad spectrum (gray-scale)

of intruders (in the night) 

stealing (tip-toeing about)

confidential (you know, that movie?)

information (freedom of…act)

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Buy This One, Zanzibar, by Rod Waddington

How Summer Wanders (Day 188)

Evening sank, then, 

when we understood 

how summer wanders. 

Then, when the world 

seemed to flutter 

like plum blossoms 

under April’s spell. 

I thought as much—

I remember, too, 

when the shards 

of frozen days 

pierced our hearts; 

you, silently dismayed. 

Soon, in a different light, 

when summer has been 

well-staged, we may amble 

along the sleeping shore, 

mid-day tide rushing in. 

This will happen. 

And we’ll feast on 

the orchards’ spoils, when 

all is sweet-dripping nectar, 

and dozy, humming bees. 

The size of that night sky, 

laced so finely with stars, 

delicate as lichen patterns 

on an ancient stone wall.

You can take me now, 

if you like, into this sinking 

evening, before it is gone. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Inspired by "Ich Denke Dein" by JW von Goethe (Untranslated version)

Photo: North of Slaidburn, Donald Judge

Suddenly, a Flash (Day 165)

Suddenly, a flash of autumn 

splashes across the glittering 

pavement. Hand-clasped 

couples sway close to whisper, 

then they part, gliding, floating

toward the flame: a relucent scene, 

framed by doors thrown wide 

open to the jasmine-perfumed night.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six