Missing (Day 479)

Seduced  falling 

into that pleasure 

relative to pain  

a moment 

of unspooling

unwinding fibers

frayed ends easing 

through hardened 

knot twists

fever-burnt  

prickling 

in cavedark coolth  

buoyant  leaden  

bedded by a body 

unwilling to live  

still  unwilling to 

let go  of life  still 

missing  just missing

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Ophelia, Sir John Everett Millais

Via Wikimedia Commons

Cleaning (Day 467)

You name it, it hurts.

Cleaned my old home ‘til it shone.

Now, for the new one.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ArtsyBee/Pixabay

In the Second Place (Day 431)

...in the first place, she said 

to the window, the violet desert 

night, her flushed face mirrored 

back in a reflection, where their 

eyes met. And, in the second, 

you don’t even know who I am. 

A swell of annoyance, or maybe 

it was boredom, lifted her off 

her feet for a few seconds, and 

suddenly, she could see herself 

from outside, from out there where 

stormclouds of stars piled up on 

the horizon, where a hot wind 

sipped sweat from your skin so 

quickly you never felt a prickle, 

where that silvery road unwound 

like a mystery, northward, over 

a series of rocky hills.

Outside, where the scrub brush 

met the drive, two glowing green 

eyes appeared like magic. They 

seemed to be looking directly at 

her, shimmering in rising waves of 

ambient heat. She gazed back, 

momentarily unaware of the man 

waiting for her to further explain 

herself. The green eyes blinked 

once, twice—then vanished as 

she stepped out into the evening

closing the door firmly behind her.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: fancycrave1/Pixabay

All Those Beautiful Places (Day 424)

I was there when 

that small warm bundle 

called life dangled limply 

in your arms a load of laundry 

bound for the line or a chilly 

expression of reticence on 

a face once generous 

as grandma’s whipped-cream 

fudge and fresh-from-the-garden 

berries served sunwarm with 

our breakfast every morning 

the artist doesn’t tell she shows
and deserves a snap of the fingers 
for all those beautiful places 

where magically even when 

there is no peace

there is still love

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Cafés & Libraries (Day 418)

Often, I dream of sidewalk cafés 

and cavernous libraries, where

old men gather to read the papers

and doze. I weigh my options 
in the palm of my hand: Peach, 

pear, or apricot? Will the fruit’s 

fragrant meat resist the pressure 

of my teeth, or will it succumb 

easily, carelessly divulging juicy 
secrets? Somewhere, someone’s 
chair scrapes the stone-cold floor. 

A spine cracks. I stretch. My spine 
cracks. A woman walks by quickly,
remarkably poised, seemingly 
unaware of her squeaky left sandal. 

Collecting my things, I ready myself 

to rejoin the sundrunk joy of April 

outside this cool, dim, ink-and-paper 

world. Fast asleep, silver-whiskers 

and unruly eyebrows twitching, 

the man to my right dozes, snuffles 

now and then, and, squinting into 

the hazy midday glare, I find myself 

wondering if he, too, dreams about

sidewalk cafés and cavernous libraries, 

where girls with leather satchels 

and ripe pears pass through wooden 
doors into the spring-white light.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org Dr. Gustav Stresemann, German Foreign Minister, sitting at the terrace of a cafe, reading the newspapers Photograph 1930 Published: ca. 1930.

Formal reception (Day 402)

Perfect white petals.

Slight eagerness stills cupped wings.

Formal reception.

Sternly, pines balk, branches bowed.

Eloquent wind speaks her mind.

Sighing, spring retreats.

Ice reclaims still pools and ponds.

Fickle winter smiles.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: pihajutkanen/Pixabay

Those Unfrightened of the Dark (Day 394)

Blue buffeting those old wet bricks,

cars rumble over cobblestones 

too slippery for walking 

when the chestnuts shed their leaves. 

Night falls, burdens lighten for some, 

the daytime world is squirreled away, 

protected until sunrise. 

Those unfrightened of the dark may

wander, read, dance, play, fight, drink, 

and hope their eyes adjust, or risk 

the quicksand of nostalgia.

If the song’s not right, the perfume 

floating on a summer breath—jasmine, 

sweat, a baby-soft trainwreck of scent

—might lure the unfortunate into their 

own sweet mysteries, tangled as kudzu 

in the trees that line the roads back home.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Skeeze/Pixabay

The Painter (Day 392)

summer’s verdant, musky vines 

painter consumed by her canvas

wildflower ghosts of spring

in a frigid, well-lit space

mushroom-colored, winter day

brushes slay dragons of gloom

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Helen Galloway McNicoll, The Apple Gatherer (c. 1900), oil on canvas

IV. He is... (Day 376)

IV

finished  celebrating 

his grandest achievement  

pinnacle of power  that trophy 

he stole from defeat’s slavering 

jaws  but it brings no joy to 

this man  only discontent 

stress-related illness  and  

a life in all ways diminished 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image created from an original photo 

from the US Dept. of Defense

In All the World (Day 289)

Not a care 

  exists 

    in all 

    the world

for us

   our dreams 

   our lies  our loves

   our losses

beyond our own

sun  

   moon  

      distant 

   spiraling 

galaxies 

     none will 

pause 

for a single 

moment  consider 

or disregard 

our empires of 

self/importance 

we can 

rest peacefully

in this 

knowledge  take 

solace  and 

breathe awhile. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Earth and her moon from Saturn’s rings 

NASA/JPL-Caltech/Space Science Institute

Blue is the Hour (Day 169)

Blue 

is the hour 

when you 

come home,

the twilit moment 

when, alone, I 

put down my pen

and turn 

inside-out

toward 

the window,

gauging the light,

delighting in 

the soft summer 

sparkle of fireflies,

before you 

arrive.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Oia, Santorini: Blue Hour, Pedro Szekely

Luminarias (Day 156)

 

Clinquant luminarias twist the heavy

heat,

sending strange spirals of scented 

smoke

climbing lazily toward the dancing

stars

reflected in the water’s tender 

veneer.

From time to time, winds work the

surface,

the way a gentle breath stirs and

lifts 

the silk-fine strands of hair along your

neck

when we whisper together in the living

darkness.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Lucid Bay (Day 153)

 

Lucid bay rolls. Aqueous 

bowers, fraught with 

binding stalks of kelp. 

Among the lashing leaves 

and streaming silver fish, 

truth breaks. Wisdom 

scalds the waves, stars call 

out from the violet 

deep, a lonesome sound, 

luring believers beneath 

the mirror’s surface.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Kelp Forest, NOAA's National Ocean Service

Between (Day 152)

Between light and dark

As fireflies are rising

We fall together

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Outside Spearfish, SD (Day 149)

 

Photo: Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary

In the hills outside 

Spearfish, she turned 

her back 

on the way he 

held Belle Fourche,

like pinto ponies,

black and white, grazing 

in his hand. He motioned 

to her, but she shook 

her head, looked away, 

and said: 

“I used to believe,

when I was a girl, 

that so long as we 

had horses, the world 

would be okay. I wished 

for a Palomino 

back then, but now, 

my tastes 

have changed...”

Lifting his hand

to shade his eyes,

he couldn’t see how 

the sun caught 

his ring. An amethyst 

haze dimmed the valley, 

which stretched out 

beyond their ledge. 

Blue-sky eyes 

now cloud-rimmed,

his shoulders fell 

with an audible breath.

“We don't need 

to wait for answers,” 

he said, “Living so 

close to the edge.” 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Will There Be a Happy Ending? (Day 147)

 

Will there be a happy ending

this time? Will we win

because good always does?

If we can’t hear you,

we can’t see you—

maybe you’re not real.

Can you help us? Will you 

hurt us? Tell us how you feel.

Our hats have always been 

the whitest, spurs have always 

been the brightest, but 

you’re their dark horse and

they fight us everywhere 

we turn. So tell us, 

will there be a happy ending,

or is the ending just beginning?

How can we make sure 

that the good guys win?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: The Herd Quitter." Oil C.M. Russell (1864–1926), Montana Historical Society MacKay Collection, Helena, MT

Twelve Shooting Stars (Day 145)

 

Lazily undulating furrows stretch, 

an exotic love song, under 

the missing quarter moon

on this long and silky, rainy night. 

Twelve shooting stars will fall 

unseen, while Jupiter's 

murderous glow burns, fierce, behind 

the weary sky. Wandering, later, 

out to the fallow field, eyes still 

dreamy, breathing shallow, 

lightning barely flickers at the edge, 

the dozing sheep grow restive, 

mumbling their deepest fears to us, 

and one another. Deep blue ozone 

tints the balmy breath that gathers up 

the rain-slicked chestnut leaves, and 

whispers timeless secrets 

in our ears, to warm us on a distant 

winter night, when we'll dream 

of lullabies that only trees can hear.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Chris Rand, Star falling into the aurora over the Kewaunee River, Wisconsin 

Stillness (Day 140)

Photo: Jason Hollinger

Thick layers of stillness drape 

the cornfield's winter stubble,

midnight sky pearly and pale,

her face concealed behind

a veil of crystals dropping

like petals onto the drifts' 

unmarred shoulders with 

barely more than a sigh.

Hushed, the world rests. 

Hushed, we walk, slowly, 

each step ending with

a creak, until we stand 

in the great wide open,

faces turned toward 

the flakes that cling 

like tiny feathers 

to our eyelashes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six