Now (Day 211)

Now 

is the winter

of the Summer

of Love

and the summer

of the winter

of our discontent

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: zalazaksunca

With gratitude to Mr Hemingway and Mr Shalespeare for this poem's inspiration

Spoons (Day 186)

Be careful how you spend them:

Too many in the morning will 

upend your day. Summer’s 

brilliant sunlight will come 

streaming through your 

windows, find you 

where you hide, 

and set your pale skin 

aglow, inside, there in your

bed. Your plans all scattered 

to the wind, because you needed 

rest instead. Once again, you gave 

them all away, far too early In the day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six 

(The Spoon Theory is a way to describe myalgic encephalomyelitis [ME], fibromyalgia [FMS], multiple sclerosis [MS] and other ‘fatiguing’ [major understatement, there] autoimmune diseases. Read about it here.)

Image: FaceGuard via Pixabay

Abuelita, June 2017 (Day 179)

We crossed the border in

a rusted Falcon, on a wheel 

that was starting to go flat. 

A fountain of dust spouted 

behind us, tinting the sky  

terra-cotta where the sun shone,

Powdering our car, skin, food 

with an ancient, ubiquitous grit,

metallic on our tongues, like blood.

Whenever we passed another 

car, truck, any sign of civilization, 

she ducked and covered herself. 

Before the stark mountains, a plain, 

monotony interrupted here and there 

by run-down, sun-broken signs. 

We drove through darkness, wide 

open to the desert air, vibrating

under a million spinning galaxies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Rennett Stowe

A fan, a violin... (Day 167)

A fan, a violin, a ticket 

on a swaying train,

waiting like some self-satisfied 

grande dame enshrouded 

by her veil of steam. Wheels 

sing on cobblestone streets, but 

in the sprawling park, duets walk 

and listen appreciatively 

to a handsome mockingbird. 

Summer sulks, and whispers in 

equatorial tones, painted in red 

dust and canopied windows, 

behind which translucent ladies fan 

themselves and pretend not 

to sweat. The men, dangling 

cigarettes in a darkened library, 

admit nothing to their wives—mere 

trophies or, at best, beloved pets—

whose delicate natures, their men 

believe, could not tolerate the harsh 

daylight glare of their midnight 

mistresses. Falsehoods, fraught 

with thorns and slickly oiled, flare 

like matches, only to burn out 

and leave behind only untrustworthy 

images in their wake.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Vintage photo: Afternoon Tea, Bombay 1897

You Come Back To Me (Day 146)

 Katja, on hand-crocheted ripple blanket

In the strong line of my pen, 

you come back to me—

playful, an acrobat, more sure 

of your skill than I, but you

prove yourself, and, high 

above us find a view that 

inspires your frequent high-wire 

displays, much to my dismay. 

In the light of a midnight moon, 

you come back to me—

ghostly presence just beyond 

my toes, leading me through 

darkness on the route I always 

follow, then you take me back 

to bed and perch, a quiet 

presence, near my head, and 

I slip into sleep hearing you

purr, my fingers tangled in 

your luxurious fur. 

In the still moments before I wake,

you come back to me—again, 

alight in the rose-gold morning 

glow, solemn, silly, cherished 

little friend, somehow you 

always know my dreams are 

at an end, my eyes about to open, 

and, mysterious as joy, you’re 

there to meet me, the sweetest 

way to greet another day.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Hopeful Tanka (Day 119)

Feathered choristers pray.

Short notes whirl above the flutes.

The shining wings beat.

A temple of new leaves swings.

Hope gathers on the horizon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sweet photo by Frank Schulenburg, "House Finch (Haemorhous mexicanus) with an Oregon Junco in Strawberry, California"

Words Fail (Day 118)

Some days the words fail
You refusing to come home
Leaving the Muse alone
With silence
Like a barren page



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Let Me (Day 69)

Let me
            help
                    hold
sing to             cry for
you
     know
    that the water I offer
will be soft
        cool
             quenching
     that the fire in my heart
will burn
    blue as lightning
                               as tears
music             bruises
will heal
      your heart
           when you lose
what         holds you      up
will
will not
       soften
            in unbreakable time
which will
      continue to pass
without
      feeling
            like a dream
you        will
                    outlast
this

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

***No human being is illegal.***

Image: Ojibwa village at Sault Ste. Marie in 1846, Paul Kane (1810-71)

Lonely From The Inside (Day 49)

The body knows 

lonely from the inside, 

bone deep:

ice-cold toes in the midst

of summer, 

or that odd gnawing 

hunger that comes on a few 

hours after Thanksgiving 

dinner. In the morning,

the body knows

it as a hollowness,

an echoing empty house

in which someone was 

supposed to have been 

living. On the outer rim

of sleep, the body knows

lonely so deep and all

consuming that, instead 

of reeling away in fright,

the two embrace, 

the feeling pulled up

and around like 

a comforter 

on a winter night. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Instead (Day 43)

Just now, I thought
There's not a lot
Going on inside
My head.

This realized,
I recognized
The fog within
And said:

I just can't write
A poem tonight,
So I wrote this
Instead.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six


For information about ME/CFS, visit:
http://solvecfs.org/what-is-mecfs/
#MECFS #MillionsMissing

The Lost and The Conquered (Day 38)

 

Photo: Votesmall via WikiMedia

The Lost and The Conquered

Downy sunshine 

reflects the white horizon 

mounds of prairie, green 

   as my people 

   as my old Chevy pickup

A war rages inside me

the lost and the conquered

   cleaning their guns

   claiming their ground

   watering their horses

Maybe this is the pale 

fish skimming the depths 

of my blood 

where I was conceived by 

the dry kiss of a reader 

who returned to his beloved

When the windows are dark 

I sense The Hills 

staining the horizon 

the well-packed bed 

   of my truck straining 

   toward the highway  

luring me, a willing virgin

at home in neither 

East nor West 

but in the middle states 

at ease

in the way 

the undulating wind 

becomes story 

    again and again

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

How Will You Be Remembered? (Day 28)

How Will You Be Remembered?

Your legacy

is too 

small

to receive

our obligation.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Went a little crazy with my marker, and blacked out one of my words!)

Shallow Water (Day 27)

Photo: Richard Palmer

Shallow Water

The sand grew hot, 

searing gusts more 

dust than air, 

coating their eyes, 

their mouths, rendering 

each awkward breath 

a punishment. 

Is this what 

they had in mind? 

Or was 

the winding tide of clarity 

obliterated 

by the ineffable truth 

of  moonlight 

shimmering 

on a vast expanse 

of shallow water?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

The Clock (Day 26)

The Clock
By Hannah Six

What they
did not know then:
Unplugged, the clock still ticked
Silenced, the alarm was always
ringing


(c) 2017, by Hannah Six




Note: This poem is a cinquain—a poem or stanza of five lines. I based today's poem on a specific cinquain form used by Adelaide Crapsey. For more information, visit this Academy of American Poets web page.