Not to be Trusted (Day 252)

The fog of fellowship blurs every

hairline crack and fissure webbing 

the heart’s candy shell—proving, 

yet again, that feelings are amoebic 

in nature, and not to be trusted. 

Like liquor, they peel your throat 

and leave behind a burning uprising 

of shame. Even you, accountable to 

no one, will answer for your aimless 

laxity sooner or later, leaving us 

awash in your purple velour humility.

But we will not be brainwashed by 

the wine you pour, that ancestor of 

greatness whispers truths in our ears, 

even in public, we are the good guys

And we always win.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bhakti2

Happy Endings (Day 244)

tragic fiction, happy endings:

flying away 

to some extended-stay hotel 

in some guy’s magic land   

where partly sunny ruins the day

the world is cruel business, see? 

sometimes this strikes me funny 

like laughing at a funeral, death 

do us part

happy few go on forever as 

they start, those poor nine-lives cats 

and breeding bunnies, whose tales 

aren't much worth 

    writing about

        what I don't want to be 

            interested in what I think 

I'm trying to get at, to know, is the truth: 

life just feels more real when 

you drink your coffee from a broken cup, 

when dawn wakes up 

to greet you—you—

with the cold dew on your toes

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: aingnamma 

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

After I Left (Day 215)

One week after 

I left, I lay down

on the floor 

on a borrowed futon cushion 

in my new apartment 

in a building that used 

   to be a paper factory 

there were no sheets on my bed

there were no dishes in the kitchen 

there were no curtains on the windows

there were no books on the shelves 

there were no shelves 

there were no lamps

what was there 

was a blue candle 

   with three wicks

   in a wide-mouthed jar 

and a goldfish named Cal, 

   because I loved Cal Ripken,

   baseball hero with eyes like ice

   and a whole lotta heart  

that night, 

after work

after running up 

   the building’s stairs

after blowing out 

   each wick, I lay 

on the floor 

in the dark

and when the demons arrived, 

as expected, right on time,

I closed my eyes 

and listened 

to Cal, sorting through 

the gravel in his bowl, 

sucking up each pebble 

and spitting it out

plink…plink…plink 

and was glad for the company

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bowl of Goldfish, by Childe Hassam, 1912

I Can't Express (Day 208)

Your eyes   I can’t 

express  recall

myself another story 

it’s not always fair 

to see 

where were you

heading to shine 

let me light 

your path

through the forest

at night   how can 

we all exist 

in a world 

so full  so full

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

At the End of the Pier (Day 194)

Sitting at the end of the pier, 

you and I shared a coke, 

our feet dangling in midair. 

We inhaled the faint mist rising 

from the water, which flowed 

with the tide, left-to-right, below us, 

and imagined boats drifting past, 

carrying people we glimpsed 

on the news, people without 

homes, some running from, some 

running toward. Then, we fell silent, 

as children do, who, like refugees, 

carry little sense of power, helpless 

in the face of pain and despair, 

never realizing that we, hands tied, 

offered more than the entire city behind 

us—hearts in our hands, ready to give 

or to take, as the situation required. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Alcatraz Sunrise, by Tony Webster

Artifacts (Day 161)

 

They keep 

adding up,

the moments, and 

the words to 

describe them, 

and I carry them, 

like winter,

like my sister’s piggybank,

like what happened 

that night

at 42nd and Baltimore.

I carry them, 

tucked deep inside 

my pocket, until I find 

someplace warm and safe 

and comfortable 

where I can take 

them out to examine,

one by one, holding each 

up to the light, 

turning it,

like a mysterious artifact,

this way

and that.

(c) 2017, By Hannah Six

Photo: Marrakesch, In den Souks, by Giggel

West Side, 9:00 p.m. (Day 160)

 

They turn, 

moon faces pale 

in the darkness, 

black hollows 

where their souls 

should burn, they 

turn, and 

their faces turn, 

as we amble 

past, the beautiful 

dog and I. 

Leafy hands, 

unpruned, reach 

upward to pluck 

stars, one by one, 

from the clear sky,

—children, picking 

paste gems from 

flaking gold—

they reach, up 

and out, toward 

and away from, 

spooking the dog, 

but I know 

we will soon pass, 

soon be home, 

and the pale 

moons will still 

have only holes, 

the branches remain 

unrestrained. 

A dog barks twice, 

squeals, and we 

are grateful 

for narrow, steep 

stairs, from the top 

of which, we could 

continue watching them, 

if we cared to.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Koszalin Street, at Night by Kalasznikow47

In a Flash (Day 148)

 

And then, in a flash, 

she is gone,

And so is the song 

she was singing.

Now is it too late

—am I wrong—

to long for a cracked 

old bell's ringing?

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Photo: National Park Service. Thanks to some super-smart Penn State students, you can hear what the Liberty Bell would sound like if it could still ring.