Distress (Day 365)

I did not think 

we’d come

to this

I did not think 

we’d last 

so long

as a first kiss or 

a sparrow’s song

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image via Pexels

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

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. 2: Orange (Day 320)

The country awoke from its autumnal haze

Exurbs were elated, the suburbs unfazed.

As an old southern dynasty from New York City

Moved into the White House, we drew the world’s pity

Roy hit the ground running, his pen charged with ink,

Signed executive orders faster than he could think.

And the apathy that had infected the land

Dissolved in the face of repeals and bans.

Soon rumors arose of a modern Resistance.

And pussy grabbed back, despite the insistence,

Of a bunch of old White men on Capitol Hill,

That society’s downfall began with The Pill.

In blue-collar cities, and hungry coal towns,

Where the people believed that they’d been let down

By a government in which they barely took part— 

Folks insisted Roy had their best interests at heart.

Still, a question tormented those skilled at detection:

Had Roy slept with the Russians to win the election?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: This is Part Two of a seven-part series. 

You can read Part One here.

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)

One Shakes (Day 243)

one shakes off 

the droplets of pewter sky and

the dog-damp air settling in cracks and

the iridescent fairy dust of adolescent longing

because now 

powder puff snowbanks have given way

to faded crevasses   shade-flooded and 

rimmed with quicksilver

how is one to live 

when golden lines of poison goose-step 

down boulevards of half-remembered dreams?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain

Wallflowers (Day 234)

This is what I 

find dismaying:

one year in, we’re 

still replaying 

stories of our 

past golden years 

and gossiping 

about our fears. 

What we need now

is a firm stance:

Wallflowers don’t 

get asked to dance.

Last time we were 

caught unaware—

next round will go

to they who dare.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Emma Frances Logan

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

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

He Was Nobody (Day 150)

 

Disdaining trophies, 

lacking 

medals, and craving

widespread acclaim, 

he was 

nobody, famed 

for creating 

an unanticipated future

The Golden Era 

drew to a close 

as he picked up his iron 

scepter. And yet, 

he was locked 

in place, denied 

a ride in 

the golden carriage.

He found himself 

disgraced, unable 

to face 

his curious tribe, 

and—after the stars

had realigned—

was sentenced to live 

as he prescribed. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Will There Be a Happy Ending? (Day 147)

 

Will there be a happy ending

this time? Will we win

because good always does?

If we can’t hear you,

we can’t see you—

maybe you’re not real.

Can you help us? Will you 

hurt us? Tell us how you feel.

Our hats have always been 

the whitest, spurs have always 

been the brightest, but 

you’re their dark horse and

they fight us everywhere 

we turn. So tell us, 

will there be a happy ending,

or is the ending just beginning?

How can we make sure 

that the good guys win?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: The Herd Quitter." Oil C.M. Russell (1864–1926), Montana Historical Society MacKay Collection, Helena, MT

He Really Means... (A silly senryu for Day 136)

Please don't confuse me with That Man!

Trump: Science is fake

Trump: Putin is my hero

Trump: I hate poor folk

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Where the Truth is Written (Day 61)

 

I can hardly see the trees anymore, let alone 

the forest, floor composed of fallen leaves,

a century's worth of organic debris, perhaps more
than I care to count anyway
you look at it, the truth is written in 

  the pattern of your missing hair, 

  the blue now faded from your eyes, 

  the spaces between the razor thin lines etched
    into the back of your hands,
  the rings you no longer wear
    on fingers so swollen from typing
    lies, that they no longer fit

your purpose now, as you can see,

is to reach the bold red X on the corner
of your map, where you imagine treasure awaits
discovery by a conquistador of your stature, you 

won't find contentment there, though,

the demise of longing, your old companion 

about whom you could elucidate, wax poetic,
compose sad songs while sipping wine
in a cafe, but no, we'd rather never hear 

some lonesome tale of martyrdom

embellished as it would surely come

from between your truth-parched lips.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six