Who Chooses the Music (Day 481)

My cat is a tiger lily, 

wild and bright.

Vivaldi is his kryptonite.

To get him into bed at night,

I turn on The Four Seasons.

My dog is innocent 

as a daisy.

Bach settles her 

when she feels crazy. 

Sheep safely grazing 

make her lazy.

She finds sonatas pleasing. 

Sweet music soothes

the savage beast,

so I’ve collelcted quite a feast

of Beethoven, Hydn, and Liszt,

for pets who need appeasing. 

Who needs another reason?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Ice Music (Day 383)

come out   into 

the dearest sliver 

                       of night   

intuit  improvise  take 

    turns warming 

thin sensitive fingers   tickling 

the pitiless ice   the brush
  of its steely surface 
       like the merest kiss 

            of arctic fur  

breaking against 

your bare neck   curved 

strings of errors composing 

instrumental openings 

into delicate 

     musical lakes 
resonating   a still 

  slight sound

in a softer space  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: Emile Holba

Inspired by this article about Norway’s Ice Music Festival

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

It's Like That (Day 264)

It isn’t a slow song that gets to me, 

but the shuffle of boots across

a sawdust floor, dry as august 

weeds, screen door banging against 

the frame from time to time, 

red dust coating on the chairs. 

It’s the way a certain singer’s voice 

breaks just there, at the edge of that 

single note, and how the steel guitar 

falls away from the band to sway 

through a slow swing solo. 

The beer is just okay. The crowd, 

rough as brand new, 

never-been-washed 501s.

But that boy, with the silver band 

around the crown of his dark brown hat? 

The way his eyes darken as he plays, 

and the skin at the nape of my neck 

tingles in anticipation? He brings me 

back, and back again.

It’s like the shuffle of bare feet on 

a wide-plank kitchen floor, the scent of 

strong coffee brewing on the frost-bitten 

edge of a long autumn morning. It’s like 

the sunlight glazing each falling leaf 

against the backdrop of a cedar forest, 

so the trees seem to be raining fire. 

Yeah. It’s like that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Charles C Pierce, Inside the Yellow Aster Saloon, Randsburg, California, ca.1900