Shrill Bones (Day 110)

Shrill  bones 

and  feathers   strange 

unnatural  silence   long 

cold  weeks 

producing  sudden 

change   timid  voices 

soothe  and  

promise  meaning   

all  charges 

suddenly  dropped   and

broken

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

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

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

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

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

Every Single Parakeet (Day 77)

He flicked the tip of his cigarette 

into a crystal ashtray—a wry object, 

he thought—and continued: 

"People believe the most 

expensive sentences they read, 

wanting to know what's inside 

every single parakeet and canary,

what's happening in the past, 

in apricot nectar, and in Barbie's Dream 

Machine." The other guests nodded. 

One woman's steely bob swung 

forward and backward 

with each movement 

of her head, mesmerizing him. 

"Now, we turn to strategy instead 

of chopsticks," she said. "It's consistent,  

it's complicated, clean and direct, 

its everything to everyone." 

A moment of silence 

as twelve wineglasses were raised, 

as the scent of sophisticated 

pondering filled the room, like lilies 

on a hot day. A flushed, jovial man 

proposed a toast: "Do the right thing. 

Sign up—there's no reason not to!" 

The hostess sighed. Not for a moment 

had the gentle tapping 

of her fingernail on the table 

been interrupted.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Kestrel (Day 75)

Kestrel hovers, calling

Calling in a plaintive cry.

Rides the wind upward

Until, wings tucked, 

He's falling, spiraling 

Bullet-like across the sky.

Other birds sit up, take 

Notice, chickadees chatter

Mourning doves sigh. 

Not for them this

Unfettered acrobatic

Winged delight. They find

Their strength among

Their numbers, migrating

By the dark of night. 

Eyes all glittering, they

Stop chittering, envying

Kestrel's solo flight.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

On Hand-Washing Dishes During a Flare-Up (Day 73)

 

Under the hot water my hands 

feel better   bubbles enfolding

fingers and the muscular
swell at the base
of my thumb   three plates
done   each progressively heavier

tugging my hands 

toward the wide enamel
sink   the soapwater
maelstrom will suck each joint
gently through 

the drain and into the dark 

which eventually   I am told   surges

into the Chesapeake   there a cast
of immature blue crabs 

and a shimmering, darting school
of silversides will kiss
tickle peck nibble 

until nothing 

remains but a puzzle 

of porcelain bones.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Face of the Sun (Day 64)

Resplendent veiled light
I cannot go deeper into it
today the face of the sun
is lifting off  
heat crackling like paper
smooth as cream   and slow
as blackberry honey in
a cold cabinet
I cannot go deeper into it
those midnight murky caves
of greedy desire and
single-minded passion
devoured piece by piece
like grapes,
up amongst the white
marble columns glowing
rose-gold in a March sunset

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

They Decide (Day 63)

Tomorrow, They,
in their navy or gray wool,
Ivy-striped ties, and
butter-soft shoes,
They, whose salaries we pay,
will begin to decide
what we may have and
what we may not,
who will be treated and
who, be denied.
Tonight, my neighbors
and I wait to learn whether
we might thrive or, if sick,
go untreated—
and how easily
we might expect
to do so.
Their decision affects
our employees not at all;
we've guaranteed a lifetime
devoid of want or need,
with equal care extended
to their families.
This is how our public
servants will begin
to decide, and
we'll win or lose accordingly,
because we're American,
and we're free
to choose.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

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

Rustic Luxury (Day 59)

coastal meadows

—fertile with grasses 

and light like lace—

perfectly complimented 

by the softness of lovers 

who wait 

for the perfect dreams,

spun with luxury, 

and always 

just a little out of reach 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Brighter Than Azaleas (Day 58)

Brighter than azaleas, we
walk arm-in-arm, oiled
lips like plums, coconut
scented fingertips, young,
while on the radio, tuneless
bluebird time pursues
and tires us.
We, glimmering blankets
by the pool, cloudy, green
as absinthe, jade escapes
us, bridging then and now
like sky and sun
and sand heaped up
in dunes, the grasses laughed,
we laughed and wandered, too.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

The Places He Does Not Know (Day 57)

The places 

he does not know 

      are no less real for 

his incomprehension, 

but this will 

      not always be 

so, and I long 

      for that day 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Here We Are (Day 56)

So, here we are

—you, squinting into 

the sun. Can't be 

fixed, but it is 

hard that you would 

wander off, so far.

I'd just come up
for air, and known.
Of course, 

that was after 

we talked.
The heart I used to
listen with 

is broken, still

out for repair. 

Funny, how I believed 

I wasn't there, 

but somewhere borrowed, 

while I tried to
remember you 

would never leave.

(c) 2017, by Hannah 

The Thousand Cranes (Day 55)

She'd climb 

     the ancient 

          leaning hedges 

just 

to look 

at the thousand 

cranes 

     made of curious 

          gray paper 

(she'd been told 

they once were red, 

but grew so old 

that all their color 

     had bled out, staining 

          the dried leaves

          on the ground below 

               a dangerous pink).

Busily engaged, 

in discourse with her secrets,

she didn't hear 

     the quarter moon—

          who hated to interrupt—

until he whispered, 

a gentle breeze 

in her left ear, 

It's time, it's time. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six