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

Jump high the stairs (Day 274)

jump high the bleached and splintered stairs

today was so many no’s and don’ts

and now the children are poison darts

and now she come here and just give me a hug

no really that’s what she said

the parents know that water’s good

and beating on the window 

set the crickets down with heavy sun

squeaks and whistles rattling every tree

i won’t back up ‘til the battle’s won 

and here I sit

come on let’s go out front ‘cause she’s only five 

or ten minutes away

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: KRiemer

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 

as well as 

sit  a pale egg 

unhatched 

the poison slurry 

fills the cracks

appalling  we are 

spit-and-polish 

egos  where a small 

few head 

he goes all in  

they follow even unto

silver-plated truth he 

traded in 

exchange for 

long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

After the Bookstore Closed (Day 230)

about an hour after 

our local bookstore closed

the sky darkened

to green   the wind came   sideways   

from nowhere   thunder 

racked my house and slam-banged 

around   an old man grumbling   

on a brittle winter day   so like 

human beings   their cultures gathered 

around clouds of voices   raising heat 

and ugliness   the sounds distress me   

my body reflecting   not just words but 

the humid heavy breath of the street   

blowsy   a little hot   they keep saying   

our bright star is exploding   our world 

set ablaze   eyes like deep pools 

of wisdom   and fascist fists are

pummeling my heart   if I can fight this 

I might stop falling into the jade sky   

and wake up warm and safe and dry 

but   on the other hand   we could be 

staring down the inscrutable

barrel of a millennial storm

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: terren

Have You Heard (Day 198)

have you heard

the planet

affects far more 

than your heart

if you’re a woman 

you can sense 

a pulling away from

a getting dissolved by

the plentiful cause 

you may not have

heard they don’t tell 

you this stage is 

preventable reversible 

and—you can see—

ugly so ugly

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via NASA Image Library 

Can We Fight (Day 182)

How, how can we fight 

against figments of 

the night, creations 

of a disturbed lack 

of imagination—

every direction a knife, 

a noose, a fiery pit?

How can we live, 

banging up against 

thick-swarming lies, 

when everywhere, 

the buzzing, biting 

flies struggle to believe 

him more? Almost 

imperceptibly, the door 

is closing, and we—

we with our buckets and 

green garden hoses, are 

fighting a storming sun.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Gorgeous image of a 7/14/17 solar flare and coronal mass ejection: NASA (more here)

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

A fan, a violin... (Day 167)

A fan, a violin, a ticket 

on a swaying train,

waiting like some self-satisfied 

grande dame enshrouded 

by her veil of steam. Wheels 

sing on cobblestone streets, but 

in the sprawling park, duets walk 

and listen appreciatively 

to a handsome mockingbird. 

Summer sulks, and whispers in 

equatorial tones, painted in red 

dust and canopied windows, 

behind which translucent ladies fan 

themselves and pretend not 

to sweat. The men, dangling 

cigarettes in a darkened library, 

admit nothing to their wives—mere 

trophies or, at best, beloved pets—

whose delicate natures, their men 

believe, could not tolerate the harsh 

daylight glare of their midnight 

mistresses. Falsehoods, fraught 

with thorns and slickly oiled, flare 

like matches, only to burn out 

and leave behind only untrustworthy 

images in their wake.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Vintage photo: Afternoon Tea, Bombay 1897

Indifference (Day 135)

Photo: NASA

Indifference turns Its back 

toward the fern embellished wall.

How poverty offends them.

False, soft voices rise and fall, 

like joy. A liquid starless 

sky obscures—rivers flood 

but truth is scarce.

Fragrant lies glissade, stirring 

ancient broken landscapes.

Forests will replace these things,

vast oceans will diminish fools.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Grain of Sand (Day 133)

 

I dreamt I 

was a grain 

of sand 

in a hand 

holding on 

too tightly and 

woke

tumbling into 

the dunes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Original image source unknown)

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