Holding On (Day 461)

Raspberry Beret.

Twenty-six flights of stairs.

Over and over.

Old proverb tells us:

Youth is wasted on the young.

Thoughtlessly squandered.

How else could it be?

It’s painful, living, loving.

If we knew, would we?

Lovers, parents, pets,

Smooth skin, stamina, joints, minds—

We learn to let go.

Think how tragic death would be,

If we died still holding on.

(c) by Hannah Six

Packing Boxes (Day 459)

The things, the things...

Glasses from Long John Silver

which my grandmother saved 

for me

for decades

A doll I’ve had since she and I

wore the same size clothing

Art supplies I use

art supplies I don’t use and 

art supplies I may want to use 

again   someday

And 

   so

      many

          mugs

How they anchor us to the past

How they overwhelm the present

How they obscure what might be

And yet

Some things ask to be released

Others wait  patiently

for me to be ready to hold them

for me to be ready to release them 

for me to be ready 

   to move

       into an unburdened future

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Summer of lapsed attention (Day 452)

She cannot undo her summer 

of lapsed attention in exotic 

lands  sledding downhill and

drinking sparkling lime tinged

with juniper  a miraculous 

invisible line of “but” “yet” and 

“though” traces a path from 

forehead to willing heart  

without doubt  without abandon  

mingling with the bitter things 

that make her mouth hard 

to know  the slow travel of 

an ordinary life among the humid 

evening hours  She proceeds 

to talk strikingly about the shame 

of being unfathomable  suspended

on ribbons of blue smoke between 

her previous life and the next

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Cyprus (public domain)

Behind Him (Day 443)

he hasn’t met her 

yet   but when he looks 

back   he sees her 

there   behind him   

just around the corner 

he just rounded   and 

before him 

is the woman he knew 

yesterday   who is 

no longer someone 

he knows   but someone 

he has yet to meet

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

What Teachers Earn (Day 437)

My thoughts shift, recapturing 

Home. You were scat singing 

by an open window, saying Oops! 

whenever a song veered off in 

an arbitrary direction, 

or your thoughts wandered 

down the darkened street where 

I lingered among a scattering 

of streetlight puddles.

Hearing the neighbors whispering 

in their beds, I learned that 

our teachers earned less 

than the pale, sweaty man 

who managed the dollar-store, 

and considered bursting 

into tears at the brutal, repetitive 

nature of injustice. 

This is what we like: 

Holding hostage those who hold 

all of our knowledge, because 

they are too dangerous to trust

—except with our children’s minds 

and our own vivid future.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: tookapic/Pixabay

Up Three Flights (Day 425)

Sandals landing on wooden 

steps like flat palms 

on drums  she runs up three 

flights and knocks back

humid air  thick 

with the scent 

of undergrowth  sweet 

and dark as late-summer 

midnight sweat on clean 

sheets  thinly sliced 

coral from a corner streetlight 

falling through bamboo shades 

across the bed  and his head 

less peaceful  less quiet 

than she knew  on the pillow 

for now anyway  a place to rest 

her mind when the present 

feels too sharp  because 

understanding is worth 

the effort  but you don’t always 

have to do it in the dark

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Edited image found on Pexels

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

Corners, folded (Day 384)

knit of starlings and fog   a boggy mix 

of saltwater  sand  clay  long days 

of diving between pages  corners 
folded like shame  covers angled away 

from prying subway eyes and damp 

mumbling hands that grasp 

and fumble at your back pockets  

lace curtain as shawl  that lock of 

chocolate hair  curling like a fetal kitten 

in its smoke-yellowed envelope at 

the bottom of a forgotten drawer  

expectant sound of a telephone ringing at 

two o’clock in the morning  and  lingering 

in shadows beneath a persistent spruce  

the August haze  illuminated like a memory  

by the streetlight on the corner

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: NinoCare via Pixabay

Almost Always True (Day 366)

The only things are bitter 

words and politics and cold 

blue sky aching tired and 

purring under a warm river of 

chocolate and chamber music 

reading and resting warmly 

wrapped in the things we used 

to love how they lifted and 

lightened our troubles until 

they merely floated away like 

feverish dreams and poetry 

winter and absinthe inspire 

and so that’s all I able to give 

to you but at least you knew

it was always almost true 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Advertising poster for "Absinthe Rosinette",

 published by Imprimerie Camis, Paris, circa 1900; 

via Wikimedia Commons

Beach Fire (Day 328)

Freighters’ lights, like stars,

glimmer and swim

in the distance. Between swells, 

they fall from view. Our eyes 

track their progress, instinctively

seeking their reappearance

each time they drop into vast 

watery valleys below the black 

horizon. Watching driftwood burn,

we feel the cold sand dampening.

Nearby, waves tumble and hiss,

closer now than before. The tide 

is turning. We must go.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Aris_Tsitiridis

On a Bench (Day 297)

On a gray bench she rests 

with faded hands  

eyes half open to the forest 

at her feet  a blanket 

of pink sand delights her 

senses  rinsed clean by 

pure turquoise 

dreams of Saturdays and 

lazy afternoons floating 

in circles beneath 

a gliding hawk while 

dogs barked and 

distant mowers groomed 

the knotted fringe of day

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: MabelAmber

Commuter (Day 295)

I remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 

and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 

and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 

collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 

a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 

of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 

got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 

at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 

travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 

parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

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

I Still Smile (Day 265)

I still smile

When i think 

of you, I still feel

the key ring on my 

middle finger, biting into 

the tender neighboring flesh,

the weighty beige phone 

receiver in my hand.

I still see 

your face, tanned

and rosy-cheeked from 

the bitter cold, and how it 

paled beneath that particular 

shade of fluorescent light from 

overhead, drained of color, still 

glowing when, eyes flashing, 

you broke into one of 

your knowing smiles.

I still hear 

you talking, voice low

against the ringing soprano

chorus of crickets, when, on 

a slow night, we might find time 

to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool

air fortify us for our next foray.

I still feel 

the thrill of the walk

—through the dark streets 

echoing with roiling engines, ribbons 

of music, and laughter from the riverbank—

to your door, where my flat, dull evening 

would transmute into fireworks over 

the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out, 

into a cheap 10-watt bulb.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lasvegaslover

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

The Sweet Spot (Day 256)

The sameness vast       the sweet spot on the map 

of me alone                    the plans we made 

together gone                an opaque white curtain

and you my future        in a box to carry 

where I go only              snow empty and white

when I look forward     only a shadow of light

hardly a glow and          yet I know it does

I suppose that’s just      the way it goes

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original image: NairnBairn

Hope hitched a ride (Day 255)

Looking back  laughing

hope hitched a ride 

with you  when I 

flew away  meaning 

to stay  a missing piece 

of the puzzle  

we played alone  instead 

of side by side

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Charly_7777

All That (Day 254)

He shouldn’t undo all 

the trees, hears loons 

downstream, calling 

to his imagination, 

shallow beginnings in 

the leaves’ gilded edges. 

It was the hottest 

year he’d known, 

like Hell’s south side, 

none of the geese 

have flown, but that’s 

fake news. Like back 

when we cried for more 

butter on our bread, 

they couldn’t hear us. 

Our lives were just too 

small for all that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Nomeato