Mystical Creatures (Day 101)

 
there is much to be said 

for awaiting in our own 

death a return to the hidden 

past  

for how the fine dust 

of remembrance 

coats the innumerable images

of our decades   

preventing us from making out 

the fine brushwork and exquisite 

filigree embellishing the souls 

of the departed 

and those we hold 

captive in our memories

imprisoning them in our dreams

in vain we attempt 

to recapture the unsuspecting 

reminiscence hidden 

beyond the realm  

the reach of intellect

tapestries spread on the forest 

floor cushioned by centuries 

of leaves   paper-thin layers 

of sun and shade 

buoying us as we wait   

quietly yearning 

for that mystical creature 

whose appearance   we hope   

will endow us 

with the objects of our desire

only chance determines

whether we discover 

and tame the beast before 

we ourselves must die

(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

Earth Day, 2017 (Day 94)

Earth Day, 2017 (Day 94)

heavy tilting planet

senses the shift    coming 

    of concrete 

and day    thick and shadeless 

concave sidewalk 

    knows 

ramrod feet from breathing 

tree   kind    houses retract

bleached neighborhood    sky white 

    beneath 

the world    thus 

causing    one lean   imagined 

dimension of pretty 

    spinning flatness

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: Photo is an edited version of one taken by Philip Grimshaw

One Word (Day 93)

 

week of one 

     word

floods us    you 

can't argue with  
these    things 

     spiral out 

of control 

     and love

filters out expertise 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Private Ballet (Day 92)

Streaming rivers of silk,

We performed a private ballet,

Seeing ourselves on stage, 

Inhabiting our own glory.

Hands clasped, toes turned out,

We bowed to wild applause,

Lingering in the dream,

Reluctant to give up the story.

(c) by Hannah Six




*Photo: Tatiana Riabouchinska, one of the leading ballerinas of the 1930's, darns a ballet slipper (via Wikimedia Commons)

Seven Days (Day 91)

 

More than seven days have passed— 

Turned to dandelion fluff and floated, 

Wafted on the April wind—since

This silence bloomed and filled my head. 

From dawn to dark, I waver in a dream, 

Safe from words and whispers, I imagine, 

Surely, in another week will fade.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Yellowjackets (Day 88)

 

Image: Sankyaku

Yellowjacket

             circling, 

always three 

     times, 

before 

     moving on 

             to more 

    manageable prey:

a succulent beetle 

     or a crumb 

dropped by 

some long-ago hiker 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Trio (Day 85)

Lofty metals clash.
Waltz of sparks spiral skyward.
Searing swarms duel.

Sweet old melody.
Sheets of lullabies beckon.
Sleep deep as a well.

An old welder talks.
Their last child grown, leaving home.
He takes his wife's hand.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six