Strange Country (Day 385)

Wide 

strange country 

under pale empty skies   

the women, walking, stand 

straight (no stoop-shouldered, 

martyred shuffling, no slouchers 

or complainers) walking, wonder 

why and whether they will ever 

learn when their parents die,

if they will ever know their 

nieces and nephews 

names.  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Note: I chose not to include a photo with today’s poem, in the interest of inclusivity. Everywhere, throughout time, women have gotten a bum deal. We need to stand together. 

Generous Hearts (Day 197)

Generous hearts sigh heavenly

above a vengeful wreck,

alchemy draws awe from ice

eager, crackling spring

reveals infant pity, curled 

a nautilus of frozen hope

belligerence and boredom stilled 

unwilling, marble cries 

brittle joy, unsatisfied

cruelty’s fronds unfurl,

smoke rings stain a golden sky

filigree shrouds a violet pearl

brave new winter looms beyond

cicada evenings soft and long

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Karsten Paulick

Beyond Caring (Day 195)

Beyond caring 

Who made more

Of an effort

We passed the book

Back and forth

Copying without 

Understanding

Answering questions

Without learning 

The answers

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

A Rather Angry Rant (Day 189)

Fair warning: This poem is neither lovely nor politically correct. Because today, I am giving myself permission to speak bluntly. That's one of the benefits of—for now—not being held to the standard of objectivity.

A Rather Angry Rant

And we sit, 

and we watch

while they take,

and expect us

to give them 

so much 

for the sake

of a law 

that doesn’t

protect us all.

Build a wall?

Ban those souls

over there?

You don’t care.

It’s not freedom

or justice

it’s the same 

old prejudice, 

and we, 

the majority, care 

for democracy.

Your wall is 

just smoke,

and your ban 

is a joke, like 

your klannish

reactions to

progressive actions.

We’ll win 

in the end

and rather 

than bend, 

you’ll break, and 

we’ll sweep up 

the shards of 

your sorry ass,

and dump you in

the compost heap

with the rest 

of the trash 

you keep company 

with. Then we—

the brave 

and the free— 

will get back 

to the task 

of erasing 

your legacy 

of cruelty, 

besmirching 

your name for 

all history.

You’re rotten

to the bone,

and you will

end alone and

forgotten.

We’ll see to it

you steaming

clumps of...

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Brocken Inaglory

When I Think of You (Day 185)

When I think of you

I see myself   

stretched out 

   under the same sun

in the same field   glowing 

golden just like you 

and when I look up 

my sky is also blue 

   how strange 

      we are   believing 

it’s true   that just because

   we’re far away 

      from each other

we aren’t the same though 

   when you look in a mirror, 

   when you think of me 

       you will see 

                     yourself

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: No, that’s not a photo of the midwestern US! 

It’s a beautiful field in Azerbaijan.

Original photo: Havin_HP 

Abuelita, June 2017 (Day 179)

We crossed the border in

a rusted Falcon, on a wheel 

that was starting to go flat. 

A fountain of dust spouted 

behind us, tinting the sky  

terra-cotta where the sun shone,

Powdering our car, skin, food 

with an ancient, ubiquitous grit,

metallic on our tongues, like blood.

Whenever we passed another 

car, truck, any sign of civilization, 

she ducked and covered herself. 

Before the stark mountains, a plain, 

monotony interrupted here and there 

by run-down, sun-broken signs. 

We drove through darkness, wide 

open to the desert air, vibrating

under a million spinning galaxies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Rennett Stowe

This Day (Day 164)

Paper ribbons, twist around 

themselves, frolicking stretching, 

gathering armfuls of roses 

in their wrinkled embrace, like joy 

softening a careworn face.

Beautiful clouds, a chapel-sky

of fat cherubs on an expanse 

of of eye-piercing blue, 

laugh as if the view exposed

the greatest joke ever told around

a campfire, or a picnic table.

This day, bedecked in falling stars

and sparkling wands, is ours, 

alone, to have and hold, an uninvited 

guest, a mystery, a blessed dream,

a collective past enraptured 

by tomorrow’s history.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Independence Day 2009, northern Indiana, Joel Harter

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

Impervious (Day 100)

Photo: elbpresse

before before  

before I could turn 

it off   but I 

miss the morning 

all day now  and listen  

to the radio  

letting it 

cycle between 

news and music and 

holding each other 

in contempt 

feeling like we were 

living in an all-new 

better-than-before 

world   one where 

we had covens

of rich white men telling 

our bodies not to have 

ovaries or uteri

and we 

were oddly hopeful

hating  losing  fighting for 

a scant handful 

of freedoms

instead of shrinking 

from them 

and our country 

is impervious 

to our pain

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Let Me (Day 69)

Let me
            help
                    hold
sing to             cry for
you
     know
    that the water I offer
will be soft
        cool
             quenching
     that the fire in my heart
will burn
    blue as lightning
                               as tears
music             bruises
will heal
      your heart
           when you lose
what         holds you      up
will
will not
       soften
            in unbreakable time
which will
      continue to pass
without
      feeling
            like a dream
you        will
                    outlast
this

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

***No human being is illegal.***

Image: Ojibwa village at Sault Ste. Marie in 1846, Paul Kane (1810-71)