Have You Ever (Day 430)

Have you ever come home exhausted from a trip 

to the grocery store right before Thanksgiving, 

having fought crowds of last-minute shoppers 

and carried in bag after bag of ingredients for

the feast—and dropped the bag of flour you just

bought to make pie crusts? The whoompf when 

it lands, the explosion of powder that covers 

everything and hangs in the air for hours so, 
as soon as you finish cleaning, every surface is 
once more covered in a white film that turns to 
glue when it comes in contact with water...?

You are that everlasting cloud.

Have you ever stumbled into the kitchen to make 

coffee at some ungodly hour, barely able to see, 

only to find a damp mass of yesterday’s grounds 

fermenting in the brewing basket? Wrinkling your 

nose at the oddly ashtray-like odor as you upend 

the filter into the trash, you manage to miss the bag 

entirely. Fine grains of wet coffee scatter, bead-like,

onto your bare feet and the kitchen floor, finding 

the most arbitrary and unreachable hiding spots, 

and crunching underfoot for days...?

You are those day-old grounds.

Have you ever invited a friend to dinner at your 
new home, freshly decorated in airy shades of cream 
and white, shown him to your favorite Italian-leather 
chair, handed him a glass of pinot noir, and watched 
in horror as he spilled it? He offered to pay all of the 
cleaning bills, but you graciously refused and, when 
he returned for another soirée, he exclaimed about 
how everything looked as good as new! (Because, you 
did not say, it is.). Once again, he relaxed into his seat, 
and once more his blood-red wine landed with a 
sickening splat on your white wool carpet, thin purple 
veins trickling down the buttery sides of your chair.
Have you gritted your teeth, reassured him, replaced 
your chair and carpet again—and then invited that 
same careless friend back to your pristine home for 
another evening of wine and cheese? No?

Well, my friend, neither have I. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: roegger/Pixabay

Cat Haiku (Day 369)

Beloved bittersweet

Enchantingly velutinous 

This bewhiskered bundle

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Note to worrywarts (like me): Charley played Muse today. He is perfectly fine! 

Longed for (Day 363)

night imploded 

into sleek weeks 

of longed-for lethargy 

a million stars became 

months of quiet musings 

yet in the end it was not 

my lover blackberry-ripe 

with unnewsworthy stories 

who constrained my heart 

it was my friend

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

By the Phone (Day 285)

Upstairs  

in the spare 

room   imagining

your face 

with a mixture 

of dread 

and longing

I hang up 

the phone   cord 

snaps back 

into place   

  phones 

    had 

     twisty 

 spiral

    cords 

  then   

and tiptoe down

the stairs 

because my mother 

forbade me to 

call boys   I was 

supposed to wait  

for them 

to phone me   

but    somehow

the threat of 

being alone always 

terrified me 

more 

than my mother’s 

quick temper.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Free image via MaxPixel

Cat (Day 216)

Takes his rightful place.

Ringed tail tip, slowly: right, left.

Imprints lap with fur.

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: Charley, H. Six

We Did It All Wrong (Day 184)

We did it all wrong,

but we didn't mean to.

You, shoes squealing 

sharply, sliding, 

reaching, saving

the day, captured 

in black and white

like a song. 

Later, the whiteness 
of my arms against 
the darkness of 

your skin astonished me

and you—the moon 

turned us a glowing 

twilight shade of blue. 

We danced, sweet 

and slow, and you left 

your ring on my table,

so I’d think of you, 

and I did, 

and I do, you see? 

But that was all then, 

and we did it 
all wrong, didn’t we?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: I was unable to figure out to whom this lovely image should be attributed. Please leave me a comment if you know.

You Come Back To Me (Day 146)

 Katja, on hand-crocheted ripple blanket

In the strong line of my pen, 

you come back to me—

playful, an acrobat, more sure 

of your skill than I, but you

prove yourself, and, high 

above us find a view that 

inspires your frequent high-wire 

displays, much to my dismay. 

In the light of a midnight moon, 

you come back to me—

ghostly presence just beyond 

my toes, leading me through 

darkness on the route I always 

follow, then you take me back 

to bed and perch, a quiet 

presence, near my head, and 

I slip into sleep hearing you

purr, my fingers tangled in 

your luxurious fur. 

In the still moments before I wake,

you come back to me—again, 

alight in the rose-gold morning 

glow, solemn, silly, cherished 

little friend, somehow you 

always know my dreams are 

at an end, my eyes about to open, 

and, mysterious as joy, you’re 

there to meet me, the sweetest 

way to greet another day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six