Strange Country (Day 385)

Wide 

strange country 

under pale empty skies   

the women, walking, stand 

straight (no stoop-shouldered, 

martyred shuffling, no slouchers 

or complainers) walking, wonder 

why and whether they will ever 

learn when their parents die,

if they will ever know their 

nieces and nephews 

names.  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Note: I chose not to include a photo with today’s poem, in the interest of inclusivity. Everywhere, throughout time, women have gotten a bum deal. We need to stand together. 

Poison Slurry (Day 240)

your words  they lie 

as well as 

sit  a pale egg 

unhatched 

the poison slurry 

fills the cracks

appalling  we are 

spit-and-polish 

egos  where a small 

few head 

he goes all in  

they follow even unto

silver-plated truth he 

traded in 

exchange for 

long-since missing wits

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: StockSnap

Generous Hearts (Day 197)

Generous hearts sigh heavenly

above a vengeful wreck,

alchemy draws awe from ice

eager, crackling spring

reveals infant pity, curled 

a nautilus of frozen hope

belligerence and boredom stilled 

unwilling, marble cries 

brittle joy, unsatisfied

cruelty’s fronds unfurl,

smoke rings stain a golden sky

filigree shrouds a violet pearl

brave new winter looms beyond

cicada evenings soft and long

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Karsten Paulick

Singing Alouette (Day 196)

singing Alouette   unaware 

of the threat behind the rolling words 

which   one day   she’ll wish she could 

forget   when the plucking of the little bird 

disturbs her brave heart   disrupts her 

tender soul   a bower of deep green 

dreams   hidden high among the pears  

seated on a V   longing for admittance 

to a world she does not know   for questions

proving what her answers show

pushing back a darkness she knows well  

a slippery pet  claws at her family tree

reckless   overwhelmed   she takes a stand

determined not to let her feelings show

she plants her feet   a warrior   sword at hand     

and stares down her fire-breathing foe

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

At the End of the Pier (Day 194)

Sitting at the end of the pier, 

you and I shared a coke, 

our feet dangling in midair. 

We inhaled the faint mist rising 

from the water, which flowed 

with the tide, left-to-right, below us, 

and imagined boats drifting past, 

carrying people we glimpsed 

on the news, people without 

homes, some running from, some 

running toward. Then, we fell silent, 

as children do, who, like refugees, 

carry little sense of power, helpless 

in the face of pain and despair, 

never realizing that we, hands tied, 

offered more than the entire city behind 

us—hearts in our hands, ready to give 

or to take, as the situation required. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Alcatraz Sunrise, by Tony Webster

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)

First Arrived (Day 60)

Taking in the South— 

an allusion to
when you first arrived,
carrying the weight 

of so many others, maybe

a little bit crazy.
Everyone thought 

our energy was funny.

What a refugee is: being 

a conqueror of the world,
not a dirty word.
Gathering on the patio 

in the cool aqua evenings, we
are such fighters and warriors now—
on the move, singing
like birds, a political idea 

we have come

to represent. You
are welcome to
take more than just one look.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Their Unfortunate Crime (Day 32)

 

Photo: Jacob Riis

Their Unfortunate Crime

Those people  there, 

not we   not us   not me     they 

are the problem   See them  

leaning on that wall 

Sitting cross-legged in the dirt 

that collects like unpanned gold 

beneath their nails

The rusted old cars in their 

sere yards choked with weeds

The flies   the mud   the guarded 

bloodshot eyes of their 

sweating bloated babies

Lord   We should adopt them all 

what kind of parents would

soldiers could   kids delirious 

in hooded jackets   pants down 

to there   Thank God   

they are not    here   we are not 

there    not them   they are 

not us   and that 

in our westernized opinion 

is their most unfortunate crime

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

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

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