The Beast (Day 405)

The beast is stirring. Do you hear her? 

Roaring like war in the middle distance?

Ouroboros consuming her own tail, we 

saw her curled and assumed she dreamed, 

spanning the globe with her iron grip, 

squeezing ever tighter as she slept, 

mistook her eternal cycle for a promise, 

assumed the promises she made she kept,

missed seeing the signs of life simply suspended.

The beast is waking. Do you hear her? 

Hissing and steaming from on high, 

Pele’s rapturous rest was interrupted, and 

with a great volcanic sigh she stretched and rose, 

forked tail unfurling slowly, blotting out the sun,

casting an insidious shadow we didn’t know 

would burn rather than freeze, would bring us 

to our knees, not to our senses, after all.

The beast is rearing. Do you hear her? 

Readying for battle on a field of fire we 

refused to quench, a nightmare no one believed 

would form again. Friends grow chill and soon 

their hatred blossoms into enmity. Enemies’ poison 

grows more deadly still. And we, the unprepared, 

freeze in her gaze’s glare, we helpless prey, 

assuredly the fierce predator’s intended kill.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Fantasy Dimentions

Distress (Day 365)

I did not think 

we’d come

to this

I did not think 

we’d last 

so long

as a first kiss or 

a sparrow’s song

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image via Pexels

Silken Grip (Day 364)

When the hand lets go   the fingers 

continue to meet   forming an O of 

conspiratorial approval   a manual 

wink   and the glass tumbles to 

the carpet   the clink of ice and 

slice of lime giving voice to 

otherwise-silent sin    the street 

outside fizzes with traffic and 

surely-fascinating conversation   

if only she could hear more clearly   

and she strains her ears to make out 

the words   When the mind lets go   

thoughts continue to seep out onto 

the page   into a world embraced by 

the jumble of thrice-used plastic 

bags favored by the divorced woman

d'un certain âge who abstains from 

the silken grips of costly leather 

satchels   and the need to sustain her 

well-heeled husband’s grim-lipped 

approval   for the freedom to let go

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Kelly bag

Wen-Cheng Liu/Wikimedia Commons

The Unthinkable (Day 361)

How do you find 

language to describe 

what no longer exists?

Is it a vacuum?

An absence? A lack?

How will you

explain what it was like 

when morning came 

and you found yourself

unable to pronounce

the title with

<his name>?

Unable to link words,

one by one, into 

a chain strong enough 

to safely convey 

the unthinkable?

What is it like for you

to imagine that 

dwindling time 

when the acknowledged

remained unimaginable? 

When dead-eyed, vapid,

and vacant were animated, 

instead, by mercy, 

intelligence, and humanity? 

Will you help them, 

one day, understand 

how we allowed our 

pure freedom

to be smeared and sullied

by the sticky fingers 

of unheeded warnings?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: djacoby/Pixabay

Searching (Day 358)

searching 

   for safe passage

on a map 

of the gray 

   and rainy space 

   in your heart

no clear route 

   between 

   here and there

   just trailing words

dotted where towns were 

with small 

   black 

      holes

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Black Sunday dust storm, April 14, 1935 (US NOAA Public Library). You can see some truly incredible photos here: http://www.crh.noaa.gov/oun/?n=blacksunday-maps

Responsibility (Day 355)

Did you say yes, 

that day? 

Or did you say no?

Did you guess? 

Or did you go under-

ground, where, 

in the dark, you sought 

an answer from among 

yesterday’s ill-begotten 

remembrances? 

Then again, perhaps

you simply looked 

the other way?

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: gladatony/Pixabay

Imagine the elephant’s mouth (Day 354)

Ladies, the surest 

way to a man’s 

heart is through 

a musical. 

I need you to 

tail the bad guys 

while I 

ride on ahead.  

Absurdly amusing, 

how she used 

the pinking shears

today.

A number of 

details in 

the Lincoln Tunnel 

speak to me 

of love.

Imagine, 

the elephant’s mouth

smelling heavily 

of cloves.

Pull over here

for a moment, dear,

won’t you?

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six

Image: Schuetz-Mediendesign/Pixabay

The Weekend Shows (Day 347)

cold toes in wool socks feet

sweating inside slippers that 

clearly aren’t doing their job   

comforting weight of the cat 

spread across my lap from 

knee to thigh folded and 

draped from side to side like 

a sun-warmed blanket 

knitting needles making a trim 

clicking sound when the tips 

graze and nubbly yarn turning

into fabric as it slips through 

my fingers   spicy floral tea 

growing lukewarm in a pottery 

mug painted by a mystery artist 

in an intricate pattern of blue 

flowers and green leaves that 

remind me the world will not

always remain frigid and gray

conversation on the radio in calm 

public-broadcasting voices so 

familiar they are almost like friends

—the ones I saw every day when 

I lived and worked in a city I loved—

though since That Man took office 

I’ve had to bar even NPR from 

my house during the work-week

because they never stop talking 

about him for an instant from 

Monday to Friday dwelling on 

the most bitter upsetting news

and in that way they aren’t really 

like my old friends at all

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: From Radio World magazine, 1923

via Wikimedia Commons

This is how history works (Day 345)

This is how history works.

Disgusting, irresponsible 

requests that start to sound 

strange to your ear, 

after the fourth

or fourteenth 

or forty-thousandth time

you hear them repeated.

Men and women, reading

aloud from storybooks,

not reading what needs

to be read, deciding 

things best left undecided 

by anyone but God 

(or whatever you prefer 

to call the great Mystery),

such as, “When does life start?”

or “What is the meaning of art?”

There are no set boundaries,

no term limits on genius,

where literature,

or music, or architecture 

are concerned.

Imagine, then, the absurdity

of government, among a people

unwilling to lift up 

their voices to demand justice 

for their neighbors, 

their friends, 

their fellow citizens.

Look: They cannot figure out

how to feel about a painting 

of a Campbell’s Soup can,

or Crayola’s new crayon colors, 

or whether Disco should have died.

That is how history works:

It is a beautiful and flawed

choose-your-own-adventure 

tale, and we must find a way 

to decide.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Campbell’s Soup Cans (1962), by Andy Warhol

via Wikimedia Commons

Roy G. Biv Pt. 3: Yellow (Day 321)

Years ago, Mr P set detailed plans in motion,

To install his own president across the ocean.

He baited his hook with loans and promised power,

and, Lo!, caught some Republicans within the hour.

The ‘Pubs had been sidelined in 2008,

By a Black politician who filled them with hate.

With destroying his legacy as their guiding rule,

The party chose Roy as its figurehead fool.

The enemy-allies launched a massive attack.

There were murders, and robots—they held nothing back. 

Defaming opponents and promising the moon,

Roy yucked it up like a big orange buffoon.

Sure, they won, but most knew the election was potted,

And in all the best newsrooms, the scam had been spotted.

Soon Roy’s Russian ties became the main attraction, 

So the frenemies, frightened, cooked up some distractions:

They’d attack the defenseless, the children, the elderly—

In due time, they’d goad Kim into World War III.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (c. 1900) 

by W.W. Denslow, via Wikimedia Commons

Roy G. Biv, Pt. 1: Red (Day 319)

“I’m gonna turn back the clock,” Roy said,

“Or those Liberals’ll paint us Commie red!

Let’s go back to the days of old

When men wore guns, and coal was gold!”

“I’ll build a wall from sea to sea!

They’ll pay the bill, for us it’s free.

It’ll keep us in, and keep them out!”

The crowd cheered so, he had to shout.

“Those nasty women should be banned.

They dare presume to take a stand?

While, we’re at it, Muslims, too—

‘Cause we know what they plan to do!”

Soon, chants arose, of: “Lock her up!”

Rebel flags flew from pick-up trucks.

At racist rallies, all seats were filled.

In Charlottesville, a girl was killed.

Unbelievably, voters believed his lies,

And democracy, in darkness, dies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: “To begin with, I’ll paint the town red” 

A political cartoon by Grant E Hamilton, 1885

US Library of Congress via Wikimedia

Hot Air (Day 318)

Reclaimed by that hot air

Our cool rain enriches the clouds

Fertile land grows arid

Their vast dams newly reinforced 

Water will not trickle down again

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via Pixabay

His Rendezvous (Day 310)

In the end he was quickly granted his 

rendezvous   saying little   connecting among 

the ghosts of school-room conversations after 

his charade of rochambo crushed the bodies 

of those children with their knowing eyes.

Little by little we begin to break ranks   

mothers unable to restrain us with the old 

dreams we left behind in their wombs   

fingering our superstitious thoughts like prayer 

beads and furrowing our brows when we realize 

none of our messages have been opened   

none received. 

And yet many linger in the hard winter sun

waiting to see   knowing that men such as 

these always do themselves in by 

murdering what they have already won 

during a time when they believe they haven’t.

Note: This poem was inspired by a few random lines

of The Complete Essays, by Michel de Montaigne, 

which I chopped, scrambled, and tinkered with for

an enjoyable hour or two.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image based on a photo by Gage Skidmore

Greed (Day 294)

Everything some people have 

is not enough.

Insatiable, merciless, their hunger 

prowls without respite.

Mouths agape, squawking for 

more, they devour

the world whole, spitting 

out the bones. 

Afterward, when it’s obvious

there’s nothing left, 

they suckle and gnaw 

at the emptiness, 

until it turns them 

inside-out.

(c) by Hannah Six

Photo: Per Harald Olsen

Note: I wrote today’s poem in response to the following prompt from poet Kelli Russell Agodon:
“Write a seven-line poem about one of the 7 Sins that only contains seven words in each of the lines.”