A Dreaming Sky (Day 466)

If the sky is a dreamer

what does that mean 

If the clouds are new

is this the same sky 

I used to look at 

the way children do  

the way I am  a dream 

the heavens are having   

gazing into the blue  

beyond which sailboats 

floated when I lay down  

decades ago  except 

those clouds are always 

coming and going 

without saying goodbye 

to one another   

The stars have had time for 

many dreams  So while I lay 

on my back  in the grass 

they are sleeping

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sebadelval/Pixabay

Coming Years (Day 439)

imagining majestic scenes 

and indigo horizons, 

steeling himself, he walks 

purposefully toward his first flight, 

white-knuckled 

grip on the leather handles 

of his bags

before today, exotic meant 

a drive-up in a neighboring state,

a girl whose seamed hose 

looked almost as soft as her 

bare legs, and dancing 

to jazzy music, late at night, 

in the parking lot 

the symphonic prairie, 

vast—glowing as it would in all 

his coming years 

of dreams—blooming beneath 

the milky way, blowsy 

and heavy with memories 

as a late-autumn rose.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: EvgeniT/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

When You Rise (Day 397)

When you rise above 

the clouds  say hello 

to the blue for me

memorize its myriad 

hues and shades from 
ice to indigo  tell me if 
you can see the stars 

when you look up or 

if they are hidden by that 
golden light warming 

your flushed cheeks  rest 
a moment on 
the terrible wind 
that bears you aloft 

and look down on 

the soft undulations of 
the sea stretching like 

bleached cotton sheets 
beneath you  only the quilts 

on our shared bed 

can enfold you as softly  
only my arms support you 
with the strength of that 
high gale and 
the roughest tides 
of time we long to sail 
together will quiet when 
you are near again

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: macayran via Pixabay

Longed for (Day 363)

night imploded 

into sleek weeks 

of longed-for lethargy 

a million stars became 

months of quiet musings 

yet in the end it was not 

my lover blackberry-ripe 

with unnewsworthy stories 

who constrained my heart 

it was my friend

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Last Star (Day 315)

Daybreak comes

erasing 

the last stars,

except Mars, 

who lingers,

like winter 

on the high 

northern plains.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

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

But, Still (Day 204)

Their souls cry: Of course,         we are

You may never see that              far

Or dance among cascading       stars

But, still, you should 

                         know better

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: skeeze, via Pixabay

How Summer Wanders (Day 188)

Evening sank, then, 

when we understood 

how summer wanders. 

Then, when the world 

seemed to flutter 

like plum blossoms 

under April’s spell. 

I thought as much—

I remember, too, 

when the shards 

of frozen days 

pierced our hearts; 

you, silently dismayed. 

Soon, in a different light, 

when summer has been 

well-staged, we may amble 

along the sleeping shore, 

mid-day tide rushing in. 

This will happen. 

And we’ll feast on 

the orchards’ spoils, when 

all is sweet-dripping nectar, 

and dozy, humming bees. 

The size of that night sky, 

laced so finely with stars, 

delicate as lichen patterns 

on an ancient stone wall.

You can take me now, 

if you like, into this sinking 

evening, before it is gone. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Inspired by "Ich Denke Dein" by JW von Goethe (Untranslated version)

Photo: North of Slaidburn, Donald Judge

We Did It All Wrong (Day 184)

We did it all wrong,

but we didn't mean to.

You, shoes squealing 

sharply, sliding, 

reaching, saving

the day, captured 

in black and white

like a song. 

Later, the whiteness 
of my arms against 
the darkness of 

your skin astonished me

and you—the moon 

turned us a glowing 

twilight shade of blue. 

We danced, sweet 

and slow, and you left 

your ring on my table,

so I’d think of you, 

and I did, 

and I do, you see? 

But that was all then, 

and we did it 
all wrong, didn’t we?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: I was unable to figure out to whom this lovely image should be attributed. Please leave me a comment if you know.

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

West Side, 9:00 p.m. (Day 160)

 

They turn, 

moon faces pale 

in the darkness, 

black hollows 

where their souls 

should burn, they 

turn, and 

their faces turn, 

as we amble 

past, the beautiful 

dog and I. 

Leafy hands, 

unpruned, reach 

upward to pluck 

stars, one by one, 

from the clear sky,

—children, picking 

paste gems from 

flaking gold—

they reach, up 

and out, toward 

and away from, 

spooking the dog, 

but I know 

we will soon pass, 

soon be home, 

and the pale 

moons will still 

have only holes, 

the branches remain 

unrestrained. 

A dog barks twice, 

squeals, and we 

are grateful 

for narrow, steep 

stairs, from the top 

of which, we could 

continue watching them, 

if we cared to.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Koszalin Street, at Night by Kalasznikow47

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