Just Wait (Day 112)

I did this. 

I was happy to do 

something 

for the front 

in those early days.

I cannot remember 

the year, but 

I do remember 

a deeply-textured dividing,

and everything else.

My original focus—

I did finishing.

It was the work 

they offered.

It inspired me,

and I still think fondly 

of the photo 

of the original body 

and of the drape. 

It has stood 

the test of time, and I 

am more than pleased.

Four long decades have passed

since my favorite career.

I think I still have great instincts.

Just wait. You'll see what I mean.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Gold Stars (Day 111)

Fourteen-karat 

     stars—

gold as his 

     watch (already too 
     long),

his fountain 

     pen (overused), 

his ormolu 

     furniture, taking up 

valuable real estate, 

     the like of which 

he has never sold

—none will be 

given to those 

with dirty hands 

and failing grades.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

On Another Day (Day 67)

 

^{Photo: Batsv, via Wikimedia Commons}

On another day,

I might have worried, but
The mockingbirds told me 

Today is a good day

To be careless,

To let the wind run
Its fingers through my hair,

To plant a dozen irises

Along the stone path,

And to look up, 

Into the midnight sky, 

Where a host
Of shimmering stars
Are consolation for
Even the darkest night

(c) 2015, by Hannah Six

The Lighthouse (Day 62)

 

Hand in hand they walked 

for miles, cellophane heat rippling 

in the middle distance. No shade, 

no shade, and it was hot there 

on the blacktop, where stillness 

settled between the pines growing 

within throwing distance 

of the shoulder. 

Their palms sweated, salt air 

passing from her to him, 

and back again, 

and, always, the lighthouse, 

somewhere off to the right, though

often out of view. His face 

reddened, her nose burnt, and 

they longed for water, and for 

the bicycles they earlier refused, 

as if they had forgotten how to ride. 

Perhaps, if they had practiced 

how to pedal and steer,

how to keep their balance,

they wouldn't have lost their way 

and become separated, 

he at one end of a long, sere road, 

she, all the way out here, at the other, 

neither able to put one foot in front 

of the other, to retrace the miles again.

The lighthouse is no longer 

on her right, but behind her, far 

enough behind that, though she 

sometimes strains to see,

she can barely discern its beacon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

About the Ancient Mystery (Poem 52)

 

You believe no secrets 

can be kept about the ancient 

mystery: how all living bodies 

came forth from a supreme imagination—

from stones, to water, 

to a single, 

shimmering 

dream

—all here, among us, even 

in the unlikely moment 

when you felt the need 

to stop before a tree, 

and were unable 

to rid yourself 

of the idea 

that dissolved 

his freedom. 

Now, solidly rooted, he refuses 

to utter your accolades; but 

long after you've forgotten 

his silence, his blessing 

upon you will be renewed. 

You did not imprison him 

—he succombed to life, 

and then withdrew, 

to tend to 

your departure.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Inspired by a passage from Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust, whose prose is the purest of poetry.)

Sashiko (Day 33)

Sashiko

Summer among 

the thousand lakes, 

heat puddling 

in valleys, 

where glacier-cut mirrors 

reflect peaks 

striped with remnants 

of last winter's storms

You, stalking 

wild brown trout 

from the tree line, creeping 

around this, the first lake in, 

five miles from our car, 

which is ten miles 

from the paved highway, 

and (from there) another 

fifteen miles 

from the nearest 

outpost

I, kneeling on my 

flat rock,

at the base of our 

acorn-strewn campsite, 

wash the dust 

and sweat from my hair 

and cool my burning feet,

mindful of your progress

in relation to 

the setting sun

For hours, the blue 

of your shirt, 

threads the edge 

of the woods—

an elegant sashiko pattern—

appearing 

and disappearing 

from view, 

until, as evening falls, 

you are no more 

than a small 

speck 

on the 

farthest shore 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: US Forest Service

Not to Blame (Day 24)

Not to Blame
by Hannah Six

They are not
to blame for the fact
that their names
sound complicated
to our ears,
that their language
tastes piquant
on our tongues,
that their eyes
—turned toward
the brilliance
of our priceless
treasure—burn
like the July sun
on our shoulders,
that their existence
looks like silvery
chimes and rush-hour
traffic and
teenage dystopian
fiction.
How could blame
breathe
in the vacuum of our
fear?
How
could its heart beat,
mired in the shivering
quicksand of
our shame
at stepping over
who they are
on our way to work?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Nagoya (Day 20)

Nagoya
By Hannah Six

You always ignored the rancor
of autumn—instead
it inspired respect.
You always forgot that
your cool skin could whisper,
and suggested
a silent farewell.

On that November day
beyond Nagoya, maples
bare, mundane
stars above—you
seemed to draw on
the dispassion
of autumn
in deciding which
stories to tell.

Now it's April
and sweet, here
beyond Nagoya—
blossoms rain and
the maples
have leaved.
I've almost forgotten how
your cool skin
would whisper,
and accepted
your final farewell.




(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


(Inspired by the lyrics to April in Paris)

They (Day 19)

Temple of Bel, Palmyra (Photo: Bernard Gagnon)

They

By Hannah Six

They began.

We were

Unborn.

They rose.

We'd barely

Begun.

They loved.

We were

Forlorn.

They lived.

We fled

The sun.

They fell.

We eyed

Their lands.

They asked.

We turned

Them down.

They suffered.

We washed

Our hands.

They needed.

We weren't

Around.

They cried.

We let

Them die.

Like fools,

We believed we

Were wise.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

House of Rain (Day 18)

Photo: Hannah Six

House of Rain

By Hannah Six

It's that time of year 

again, 

and he has things to do.

The smoke in her rooms 

wraps around her 

eyes and blinds 

her throat. 'Clearly,' she 

tells herself, strategy 

has never been

my strong suit.'

Yet, here she is,

asking questions 

that bring fading roses

—just browning 

around the edges

of pale yellow petals

—to mind. What he 

has to tell her stems 

from the root of all 

malevolence. 

That has always been 

the problem

between them

—shadows were 

rain, and morning glories 

were Miss America 

contestants, parading 

across a stage

in bathing suits, 

as if it were 

the most natural thing

in the world.

It's that time of year 

again,

and he has things to do.

'Never mind,' she says,

her voice 

a choked tumble 

of sharp-edged gravel.

'I am close. 

It shouldn't take long.'

She knows 

him, acrid umbra, 

winding his way up 

her stairs; though, 

to be fair, he never 

did see how 

he threatened her. 

And now, he leaves,

to do what 

he needs, and 

they both know

it won't make the 

slightest bit 

of difference. She 

breathes through 

the storm in her 

eyes, and leans deeply 

into her house of rain.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Centering (Day 17)

     Photo: EBklassen via WikiVoyage*

Centering

By Hannah Six

Centering 

on the mere 

sliver 

of shell-pink 

moon, 

she sensed, 

     beneath her 

     sabulous feet, 

the Earth, 

revolving—

     a potters wheel, 

and she, 

a vessel, turned 

and shaped 

by the transparent 

fingers of cool, 

     mineral breezes. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

* Lovely image lives here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chin_Beach.JPG#mw-jump-to-license

Dinnertime Riff (Day 15)

Dinnertime Riff
By Hannah Six

At some point in the day,
he has to slide
his feet back into worn shearling
slippers and steal away
from his ancient, attic-bound desk.
Down two flights of creaking
wood stairs, his wife improvises
a modern, atonal riff, stirring,
chopping, lifting, and dropping
hi-hat lids on pots
of wayward greens and sprouts.
Drifting upward, a blanket,
of caramelizing onions and
salty, crisp-rimmed pork chops
wraps one room, and then the next,
in deep comfort. Low-playing
Beethoven, the foundation
on which tonight's dinner was built,
issues a formal invitation.
Stretching, he yawns and
gratefully accepts,
laptop lid sighs closed
on the orange shock
of a world gone
wrong, a nightmare,
forcing its mastodonic animus
through a fine needle's eye.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Mirror, Mirror (Day 14)

Some days
    weeks
        hours
             years
aren't they all the same now
that everything we love
is in
    jeopardy
I
wonder, that
our world is
not
suddenly filled
     with men
          and women wearing heavy
eyeliner,
Van Dyke beards,
sidearms,
and more
revealing clothing?
Then I
     wake up,
          look
               out my window...

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six








*Inspired by, and named for, a favorite show from the original Star Trek series (Season 2, Episode 4)

After a Brilliant Afternoon (Day 13)

Photo: Hannah Six

After a Brilliant Afternoon

By Hannah Six

After a brilliant afternoon,

the shortest night 

would, of course, 

seem longer, darker, 

riddled with frightening 

dreams—carnivals of scarlet,  

gilt, and mirror, chaotic

two-dimensional 

renderings of  dissonance, 

frenzied 

energy, whose pace 

would burst 

the Herculean heart

of slanting Secretariat—

yet even he has fallen.

Dawn will break 

again, a fine cobalt—

soon bright, burning— 

line on the horizon, 

beyond the sycamores

and soaring 

pines. 

Patience, then, and, in 

the mean– 

[the trickling
in-between 

time],
rest, look 

up and count 

the boundless, shimmering stars.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Mere Idea (Day 10)

Mere Idea
By Hannah Six

Circling overhead, too high to see,
Mere idea, wings the faintest blue,
Moth drawn to the flame my sleek pen sparks
When alchemistry ignites the page—
Not today, nor yesterday, but still,
Concentric ripples map the submerged scene
Where resonant Euterpe graced my hand,
Encouraging a well-used nib to flow
And slide across the page, a rising tide.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six