From the Silence (Day 138)

Brighton Storm, Dominic Alves

Elsewhere inside 

the room we built

so carefully, 

brick by brick, 

close enough that 

ignorance might 

pluck it

from the ethereal void

—or 

from the stunned 

silence 

that void evokes, muting 

the tidal beating 

of our collective 

hearts—

something exists 

that we do not 

expect, a glistening 

shadow of urgency. 

Will it trickle, 

thick and languid, 

into the light 

of day? Or 

shall we gallop toward it, 

seize it, brandish it 

in one vast roaring surge, 

so that we may know 

ourselves to be alive? 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Shore Town (Day 123)

Photo: Cape May, NJ, by Hannah Six

Summer surprised the pretty shore

Rustling like tumbled velvet

Filling cottages, roads, and sand

Crowding up the little station

After breakfast, tourists appeared,

Dutifully marching beachward,

Arms filled with coolers and bright towels,

Claiming the same spots every morning.

The sun climbed higher in the sky,

Parents and children chafed,

Arms full, they soon retreated inland,

Dripping ice cream on the sidewalks.

Late afternoon, clean and revived,

They emerged again to eat

Booking restaurants and filling up bars,

Then going to bed early and watching TV.

After a week of sun and sand,

Growing restless and bored,

They paid their inn bills and headed home,

Leaving behind old receipts and brochures.

The siege continued for three long months,

Leaving the whole town weak,

As summer ended they sighed with relief,

And closed up most of the kitschy boutiques.

Soon, winter enveloped the pretty shore, 

Windy, bitter, and cold.

The people wrapped up in their woolen coats

And rejoiced in their empty beach.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tell Us (Day 109)

You want us to love you

but you do not love yourself.

How can one expect to lead

a people, if one does not

understand oneself?

You want us to follow you

but you do not know where

you are going.

How can one expect to lead

a nation into the future, 

if one does not understand

its past? 

You want us to praise you

but your words of praise are

empty. 

How can one expect to inspire

trust and loyalty

if one does not understand

the meaning of Truth?

(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

Pear Tree (Day 89)

Brave pear tree blooms early

Tossing white petals to the wind

Embracing emptiness

(c) by Hannah Six

Floating (Day 78)

Photo: Jon Sullivan

She lay on her back, looking skyward

as the constellations passed overhead

and began their lazy descent.

Somnolent currents lifted and steered, 

rocking her so she drifted, 

embraced in a weightless waltz.

Oceans of ice slowly cooled her veins,

and numbness spread, transforming

confusion into a distant ache. 

And the tides sang in her blood, bestowing 

an ancient sense of belonging and knowing
the sea, which soothed her restless mind.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Loose Lips (Day 72)

Their slack mouths mutter.
As we know, spells cast witches.
Banks ooze evidence.

Mawkish fear casts a shadow.
Don't worry: Loose lips sink ships.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Fascist Funk, as dictated to the poet (Day 54)

Heavy, sweet as sweat, smoke 

hangs, a shroud,

a cloud of doubt that gets in 

your eyes and makes them tear,

dissolving the regret 
of millions of voters 
whose debt will be 
paid in lives and in 
detention centers. 

I don't worry, too few of them 

to mention—gonna be great!—

not that it ever 
enters my mind. 

You see, me and my kind 

we're not weak, we 
revel in our money, and 
despise the drab and meek
—even in our homes—
dictator chic, some editor 
once called it. What? I like red 
walls and velvet, and 
polished gilded laminate, 

in which I can admire my pouf
—See? I've got a sense of humor!

This flowing mane is proof 

that I'm still young and growing 
younger by the day. I'd say 

there's few more virile than I, 

though I wouldn't say I'm vain, 

just well-adjusted. 
Success and power, 
smoke and mirrors, 

it doesn't matter how I got here— 

I deserve it! And you love it, 

even when you 

say no, 

especially when you say 

no.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six