Spring Tanka (Day 462)

Slowly, seasons rise.

Cicadas dream of flying.

Snapping Tulip flags.

Violets keep their own counsel.

Consider the unfallen rain. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

When November Comes (Day 446)

Even the silence is quiet today.   

The last of Autumn’s leaves flocked 

and flew away in a late-winter storm,  

so this afternoon’s peace remains 

unmarred by their bird-like scuttling

on the root-buckled sidewalk. 

From my glass of tea, just within reach 

on a slatted wood table, condensation 

trickles and falls onto the damp, 

shaded  grass below, its intermittent  

drip drip marking these gentle moments.

And, though I can remember the bitter 

feel of February, my body is incapable 

of knowing it—with this dappled light 

insinuating itself so intimately into my 

blood—nor do I want to. There will be 

time enough for frost and snow, 

when November comes again.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ankyn/Pixabay, further altered

Books Suit Me (Day 438)

books suit me like navy blue

I am told   choosing is simple 

akin to buying this small house

remember when you looked 

inside all those hollow sugar 

Easter eggs   too small or large

too hot or too cold  too close or

too far away   you were afraid 

no one would come to admire 

your lush garden on Sundays 

or read my favorite novel    after 

I’m gone you’ll find it falls open 

to the passage that inspires and

comforts me   like those photos 

of the old you   the fragrance of

libraries   this small hollow house

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Liz West/Flickr

All Those Beautiful Places (Day 424)

I was there when 

that small warm bundle 

called life dangled limply 

in your arms a load of laundry 

bound for the line or a chilly 

expression of reticence on 

a face once generous 

as grandma’s whipped-cream 

fudge and fresh-from-the-garden 

berries served sunwarm with 

our breakfast every morning 

the artist doesn’t tell she shows
and deserves a snap of the fingers 
for all those beautiful places 

where magically even when 

there is no peace

there is still love

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

A hint of sweetness (Day 404)

Winter is sleeping 

off an angry outburst 
now  its freshness faded  

and spring’s impending 

buds  sensing the end 

of long cold nights are 

forcing fall’s final leaves 

from their branches  

sending them flying 

toward the estuary  

striped gray and brown 

by three weeks of rain  

flooded with runoff 

from the foothills 

that glow like autumn 

in late afternoon 

when the fog breaks and

sunlight strokes last year’s 

storm-flattened grasses   

nomadic summer migrates 

northward now  fluttering  

open-ended  shallow  

but still in a deep sort of way 

and  straining toward it 

with open-mouthed desire 

we  confined to our nests  

yearn to grasp the slightest

wafer of warmth  a hint 

of sweetness in the air  

dreaming of bees humming 

over a bank of tiger lilies 

and heavy-headed peonies 

kissing the chalky gravel walk

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: John Singer Sargent, Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose (ca.1885), 
oil on canvas, photo courtesy Tate London/Wikimedia Commons

Clean and muddy fingers (Day 343)

 

The sky fell upon them, 

sodden underbelly 

a vast, gray filet,

the sea darkening to slate,

churning waters flecked

with saline spittle.

She was in the garden,

kneeling on the grass

with her shears, gathering summer 

into a broad, petal-shaped basket,

which, in colder months,

would serve to carry kindling.

In bloom now: hydrangeas,

lush scoops of periwinkle 

and, her favorite, pink 

the exact shade 

of strawberry ice cream,

bushes sagging, heavy heads 

nodding under their burden.

He stepped through the gate

just as the clouds let go, 

releasing a torrential

exhalation of wind and water,

drenching the turbid world 

in an instant.

Three steps—he was at her side, 

reaching simultaneously for her 

and for the basket’s grip.

Their wet hands met, clean 

and muddy fingers intertwined,

As she rose, squinting at him 

through sheets of rain, smiling,

iron-gray licks of hair 

glued to her cheeks, 

each raindrop seemed to pause, 

silent, suspended.

And he realized that, to him, 

she had never looked more vibrant, 

more beautiful. Joy curled 

and swelled in his veins.

Then, with a whoop of exhilaration,

she took off running, 

toward the house.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wanderings (Day 296)

rain soaked wanderings and clear 

soft mistakes  summer traced 

familiar playground paths where 

flooded streams of shade spread 

in a flood  returning sleep suggests 

once steady worlds of gardens cooled 

by the familiar fluttering moon 

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Image: PatMorgan

Native Intelligence (Day 287)

He comes and goes 

under cover of darkness, 

even on a sunlit day,

the soft click click click 

of his bike gears

often the only sound 

giving him away 

when he wheels it, 

scowling and stomping, 

under my window

because he does 

not like to work.

It’s a shame, really, 

considering

his native intelligence, 

uncultivated and neglected, 

despite the myriad 

advantages that 

ripened and fell, plum-like,

onto the green grass 

around him while 

he idled on the lawn 

outside the modest but clean

white vinyl-sided house

where he grew shabby

and thick with weeds. 

His few friends--

partners in crime, 

his mother joked 

each night when he came in

--might have considered 

his descent a warning, 

had they grown up

in a town worth 

staying in--or even 

a town worth leaving.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TheoLeo via Pixabay 

Lapsed Lovers, Part 2* (Day 283)

...but all frozen operas melt, 

the Earth loves heat, and 

sweeping shade trees

love the Earth, and there, 

caught in the middle, they 

recall their favorite scenes, 

rekindling cold memories 

in which the very pears 

hanging within reach, sing 

golden notes in dulcet tones

no lover worth his bruised

blue heart will admit 

his part in affairs gone wrong,

and even Cupid rolls his eyes 

at their sigh-soft gazes and 

insistance on playing 

that song again

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: The Embarkation for Cythera (1717), Antoine Watteau 

(One of my all-time favorite paintings!)

*Continued from Lapsed Lovers, Part 1 Day 281

When the Magic Ends (Day 282)

When the magic 

ends

and the music 

winds down, find 

the one who’s still 

around,

helping you sweep up 

the fairy dust

and 

carrying dishes

to the sink. 

Choose him. 

You may not think 

so now, but he 

is the answer 

to those prayers 

and wishes—

the one 

who stays

after the party,

instead of leaving 

you

to clean up 

the mess

while he follows 

the rest of the crowd.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Wonderlane via Flickr

Gate (Day 278)

Metal on metal

Sagging gate peals when opened

Coming  or  going

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Momentmal

Dripping Words (Day 260)

old-fashioned roses 

russet pathway 

wends  hard-edged 

encircling a bench 

we chose in glossy 

April’s warmth  coffee 

cups in hand  legs 

splayed casually  

sunshine fierce  naïve 

and future-bound  

doubtless   in cocoons  

humming and content  

dripping words that 

never mattered as much 

as what we meant

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Summer's Song (Day 225)

Dry, sharp grasses bend.

Summer whispers, familiar heaven waits.

Stolid ponds gaze skyward.

Tiny blue-bellies do pushups on warm rocks.

Banal toads sigh among singing frogs.

(c) by Hannah Six

Late Pears (Day 221)

Late pears drop through 

branches and leaves  landing 

with muffled plops on 

overgrown grasses  rotting in 

the sun  drawing bees and 

hornets to sip delicately at 

trickles of hot syrup  

soon leaves slip off trees and 

ships rock  creaking with truth 

and frustrated eagerness  

slickly filtered through a veil 

of midnight smiles.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six 

Image: KRiemer

Shades (Day 201)

shades of neighborhood 

we see day in day out 

these gardens parks 

forests swaying gently 

in the valley's breath 

gnarled from resisting 

mountainside Novembers

chestnuts clover green

blue tinged sycamores 

maples dark as merlot

gathering a harvest 

of white heat billowing

deep into the night

from concrete ribbons 

draped about their roots

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Patricia.fidi

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

Regulation Standards: A prose poem (Day 199)

 

 Two of my neighbors built a horseshoe pit,

to regulation standards, in the yard next door. 

For a few evenings, their laughter rang out like 

a clanging bell, testifying to the neighborhood’s 

well-being. Then the games ended. I wonder 

what happened? Did one cheat the other 

out of points, or the last hot dog on the grill, 

or half a handful of their mutually-preferred drugs? 

Or maybe one asked too much of the other, 

expected too much time, too much hilarity, and 

frightened the other away? Perhaps it was 

the simple fact that one was employed, 

while the other avoided jobs like cracks in a sidewalk 

(not wanting to break his estranged mother’s back). 

These days, young rabbits graze the grown-over pits, 

and lush weeds camouflage the wooden backstops, 

disguising the evidence that, for a few evenings, 

two men’s worlds overlapped, like a Venn diagram, 

but were unable to sustain contact. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Horseshoe pitching contest at the annual field day of the FSA (Farm Security 

Administration) farmworkers community, Yuma, Arizona, courtesy US Library of Congress