Try It Now (Day 508)

How many tones ring 

in your ears when 

you silence Them?

When you uninvite 

Them from the daily

celebration that is 

your morning coffee?

When you mute Their 

urgent, insincere pleading 

and fearmongering?

Do you suddenly 

hear papery leaves

—mere buds, last time 

you noticed them—

rustling in the whisper 

of a breeze?

How many heartbeats, 

before eternity settles 

back into your center?

Until the exquisite 

smallness of the everyday 

smooths the lines of

tension from your brow? 

Try it now, and 

count yourself 

among the blessed.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Winslow Homer, Girl in a Hammock, 1873

Oil on canvas, Colby Museum of Art (via Wikimedia Commons)

Revolving Door (Day 453)

She craves 

the tonic of truth,

the flavor of 

cold canteloupe 

honey-sweet and 

slippery  sliced thin as 

mountain morning air 

She yearned 

to wander through 

the labyrinth of language  

to spin in and out 

of the revolving door 

between 

the Summer of Love’s

fizzing orange 

and unripe green 

and the cobalt blue

Reagan era’s satin  sequins 

and cheap gold plate 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Summer of lapsed attention (Day 452)

She cannot undo her summer 

of lapsed attention in exotic 

lands  sledding downhill and

drinking sparkling lime tinged

with juniper  a miraculous 

invisible line of “but” “yet” and 

“though” traces a path from 

forehead to willing heart  

without doubt  without abandon  

mingling with the bitter things 

that make her mouth hard 

to know  the slow travel of 

an ordinary life among the humid 

evening hours  She proceeds 

to talk strikingly about the shame 

of being unfathomable  suspended

on ribbons of blue smoke between 

her previous life and the next

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Cyprus (public domain)

When November Comes (Day 446)

Even the silence is quiet today.   

The last of Autumn’s leaves flocked 

and flew away in a late-winter storm,  

so this afternoon’s peace remains 

unmarred by their bird-like scuttling

on the root-buckled sidewalk. 

From my glass of tea, just within reach 

on a slatted wood table, condensation 

trickles and falls onto the damp, 

shaded  grass below, its intermittent  

drip drip marking these gentle moments.

And, though I can remember the bitter 

feel of February, my body is incapable 

of knowing it—with this dappled light 

insinuating itself so intimately into my 

blood—nor do I want to. There will be 

time enough for frost and snow, 

when November comes again.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Ankyn/Pixabay, further altered

Up Three Flights (Day 425)

Sandals landing on wooden 

steps like flat palms 

on drums  she runs up three 

flights and knocks back

humid air  thick 

with the scent 

of undergrowth  sweet 

and dark as late-summer 

midnight sweat on clean 

sheets  thinly sliced 

coral from a corner streetlight 

falling through bamboo shades 

across the bed  and his head 

less peaceful  less quiet 

than she knew  on the pillow 

for now anyway  a place to rest 

her mind when the present 

feels too sharp  because 

understanding is worth 

the effort  but you don’t always 

have to do it in the dark

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Edited image found on Pexels

I Still Smile (Day 265)

I still smile

When i think 

of you, I still feel

the key ring on my 

middle finger, biting into 

the tender neighboring flesh,

the weighty beige phone 

receiver in my hand.

I still see 

your face, tanned

and rosy-cheeked from 

the bitter cold, and how it 

paled beneath that particular 

shade of fluorescent light from 

overhead, drained of color, still 

glowing when, eyes flashing, 

you broke into one of 

your knowing smiles.

I still hear 

you talking, voice low

against the ringing soprano

chorus of crickets, when, on 

a slow night, we might find time 

to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool

air fortify us for our next foray.

I still feel 

the thrill of the walk

—through the dark streets 

echoing with roiling engines, ribbons 

of music, and laughter from the riverbank—

to your door, where my flat, dull evening 

would transmute into fireworks over 

the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out, 

into a cheap 10-watt bulb.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lasvegaslover

Patience (Day 232)

Collecting damp grass 

clippings on her hands, 

sweet Patience cartwheels 

into the clear 

evening, and nods to 

the butterfly circle. 

Wise, they may be, 

she knows, but excessively 

fond of treacle. Eyeing 

their clutter of clumsy wings, 

she says, to herself: 

“And it shows.” 

In their gossipy klatsch,

the mavens sip tea, 

while catching their friends 

telling lies. 

Fluttering, feigning, reluctant 

to reveal what each knows 

is her own thin disguise, 

they reign over the lawn, 

where Patience is 

yawning, stretched out

beneath a ring of

portly lepidopterans.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: public domain

Summer's Song (Day 225)

Dry, sharp grasses bend.

Summer whispers, familiar heaven waits.

Stolid ponds gaze skyward.

Tiny blue-bellies do pushups on warm rocks.

Banal toads sigh among singing frogs.

(c) by Hannah Six

Afternoon Melts (Day 217)

afternoon melts 

warm breeze through 

topaz days of baseball 

and lawn-mowing and 

complex watery 

flowers sliding down 

lilac and gray 

evenings drawn long as 

tart cherry pie 

tender crisp and sweet 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Image: Vintage picnic [1962], courtesy of Heather)

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

Autumn Haiku (Day 209)

Autumn trickles in.

Light shifts, leaves rattle in wind.

Still, summer lingers.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo source unknown

Lilacs, Vineyard (Day 191)

If everyone listened to lilacs, 

the way she did that 

spring, the world would be 

light as a butterfly, balanced 

on a spiraling tendril in a 

honey-tinted vineyard. 

In the distance, bells tolled 

the hours, rolling over swelling 

hills in round, velvety tones. 

One day, as she leaned 

close to hear their whispered 

secrets, plump purple cluster 

filling her palm, a page of 

wasp’s nest paper alighted on 

her fingertips. The lilacs trembled

while she read, then hung 

their heads and sighed to see her, 

careful and straight, make her way 

across the upturned field, 

toward an aproned woman 

waiting, screen-door balanced 

against one puissant hip.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Valeria Boltneva

Hibiscus Evening (Day 190)

Like the ruby hibiscus, 

hoarding sunlight, 

the evening sky furls. 

Petals laden with rain, 

it curls in on itself, 

and the birds fall silent. 

We wait for that first drop, 

the burst that follows, 

sending spray through our 

window screens and 

faithful fans, always running. 

An almost-August storm, 

borne in on a southern wind 

from down the valley, 

not mountain-split this time. 

We’ll witness the full brunt 

of its clamor and crashing 

downpours, feet up 

on the porch railing, leaning 

into each other, knowing 

only in our bones how it was 

when February paused here, 

shook herself, and filled 

our narrow street with snow.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Andrew Dunn

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

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

This Day (Day 164)

Paper ribbons, twist around 

themselves, frolicking stretching, 

gathering armfuls of roses 

in their wrinkled embrace, like joy 

softening a careworn face.

Beautiful clouds, a chapel-sky

of fat cherubs on an expanse 

of of eye-piercing blue, 

laugh as if the view exposed

the greatest joke ever told around

a campfire, or a picnic table.

This day, bedecked in falling stars

and sparkling wands, is ours, 

alone, to have and hold, an uninvited 

guest, a mystery, a blessed dream,

a collective past enraptured 

by tomorrow’s history.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Independence Day 2009, northern Indiana, Joel Harter

A Fountain (Day 163)

A fountain lingers

in a square where

one small, bronzed girl 

catches drops on her

slender fingers, 

where they glisten

in the slow, dry heat 

of noon, imaginary diamonds

set in tiny golden rings.

Birds swoop and dive, but 

summer saunters, hips 

swaying to the music 

in her head, the dour sirens 

banished with one vigorous 

shake of spring 

blossoms, petals falling to 

the sidewalk, like a sweetheart’s 

secret laugh. 

Nearby, on a dappled bench, 

an aging woman dreams of songs 

she used to sing, 

of willow roots submerged 

by rising creeks, 

and mud-encrusted cowboy boots 

on  sawdust-sprinkled floors. 

Poetry flutters behind her 

eyelids, toy boats twirl 

among the clouds 

reflected on the water’s 

surface, and 

the first cicada whirs,

one long note, old and strange.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Note: I cannot take credit for this lovely fountain image, which I played with a little to heighten the mood. Sadly, I've been unable to locate the proper source for attribution.)