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)

Moonscape (Day 401)

The artist's fingers seek and find  squelched

deep inside his rumpled linen coat 

the lawyer’s letter (signature required)  

growing damp and crumpled  there

he stands and draws his few visitors toward 

the glass   chilled by cold drafts tugged helplessly

into thin indentations   where beyond 

crackled windows   a golden moonscape glows  

a leaf grows here   a twig dries there  lizards 

lounge companionably   trying to warm their skin

in watery sunlight  requiring nothing more than 

an opportunity to taste the apple-scented air

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Sahara Desert (wislamos/Pixabay)

Restless World (Day 399)

It used to be 

   my heart would 

      travel 

         overseas

but now 

       it does not

know 

where to go.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: DEZALB/Pixabay

Ice Music (Day 383)

come out   into 

the dearest sliver 

                       of night   

intuit  improvise  take 

    turns warming 

thin sensitive fingers   tickling 

the pitiless ice   the brush
  of its steely surface 
       like the merest kiss 

            of arctic fur  

breaking against 

your bare neck   curved 

strings of errors composing 

instrumental openings 

into delicate 

     musical lakes 
resonating   a still 

  slight sound

in a softer space  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: Emile Holba

Inspired by this article about Norway’s Ice Music Festival

Commuter (Day 295)

I remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 

and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 

and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 

collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 

a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 

of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 

got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 

at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 

travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 

parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

I Tell You No (Day 238)

Because I tell you no, I tell you yes. 

You only have to guess to see me smile. 

Once in a long while, you might let me down. 

I’ll come around again, though if you wait. 

Too late is not the same as yesterday. 

And now the birds have flocked, and now have flown. 

The days have grown so short, and cold, and gray. 

You say I told you no, but I said yes.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Pixabay

I Am Cold Weather (Day 223)

Today I am cold weather   damp 

and wind-chimes   after that picturesque 

and uninteresting summer

     What can I say

     Outside cars read the street like Braille 

     running wet fingertips

     over the night she was buried 

and I climbed into my mother's lap 

and she held me 

and I cried

and then she dipped my fingers 

and toes in warm honey

and brought me upstairs 

and tucked me in to bed again

     Gone now   like summer 

and I am wearing thick woolen sweaters 

and socks to warm  

and I'm in bed

     —warm cat cool sheets—

and I miss the days when everything 

     seemed like it would be all right 

     for a while

and we were so happy 

and wet 

and windblown 

     into that narrow restaurant

     in a gust of leaves

and umbrellas insufficient for 

     an oncoming hurricane

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Roman Boed

The Starry Night (Day 219)

The brown serge, warm in the deluge, 

grew clammy and rumpled easily 

when squeezed into the five-thirty’s

ever-crowded, cramped seats.

Trillions of stars watched as he

—shoulder to shoulder with neighbors 

and strangers in the second car from 

the end—relaxed into the swaying ride 

down the coast toward the unknowable 

emptiness of this Friday evening. 

Somewhere, his seat-mate’s newspaper 

announced with barely suppressed glee, 

a devastating something or other

had caused property damage and,

almost certainly, loss of life.

Somewhere else, right now, he imagined, 

a plane was touching down on searing, 

crackled tarmac, bumping toward a terminal, 

fuselage already covered in red dust,  

overhead bins clunk-clunking, heralding 

the beginning: of vacations, of adventures, 

of memories of a lifetime. Unbelievably,

that lifetime was no longer his; no longer 

his, the smile, the camera, the deep bliss 

of the first, exhausted flop onto the hotel bed, 

the sigh of delight, the de rigeur perusal 

of nightstand drawers and room service menu.

Trillions of stars still watched, as the silver line

of his train pulled up to a darkened station,

spilled a swarm of damp, disgruntled 

commuters onto the pavement, and heaved 

itself southward. Hitching his collar higher, 

fingers wound tightly around the house keys 

in his pocket, he paused, took one slow breath,

then turned left and headed uphill, trudging 

slowly upward into the starry night. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Fæ via Wikimedia Commons

When I Think of You (Day 185)

When I think of you

I see myself   

stretched out 

   under the same sun

in the same field   glowing 

golden just like you 

and when I look up 

my sky is also blue 

   how strange 

      we are   believing 

it’s true   that just because

   we’re far away 

      from each other

we aren’t the same though 

   when you look in a mirror, 

   when you think of me 

       you will see 

                     yourself

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Note: No, that’s not a photo of the midwestern US! 

It’s a beautiful field in Azerbaijan.

Original photo: Havin_HP 

A fan, a violin... (Day 167)

A fan, a violin, a ticket 

on a swaying train,

waiting like some self-satisfied 

grande dame enshrouded 

by her veil of steam. Wheels 

sing on cobblestone streets, but 

in the sprawling park, duets walk 

and listen appreciatively 

to a handsome mockingbird. 

Summer sulks, and whispers in 

equatorial tones, painted in red 

dust and canopied windows, 

behind which translucent ladies fan 

themselves and pretend not 

to sweat. The men, dangling 

cigarettes in a darkened library, 

admit nothing to their wives—mere 

trophies or, at best, beloved pets—

whose delicate natures, their men 

believe, could not tolerate the harsh 

daylight glare of their midnight 

mistresses. Falsehoods, fraught 

with thorns and slickly oiled, flare 

like matches, only to burn out 

and leave behind only untrustworthy 

images in their wake.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Vintage photo: Afternoon Tea, Bombay 1897

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.)

Artifacts (Day 161)

 

They keep 

adding up,

the moments, and 

the words to 

describe them, 

and I carry them, 

like winter,

like my sister’s piggybank,

like what happened 

that night

at 42nd and Baltimore.

I carry them, 

tucked deep inside 

my pocket, until I find 

someplace warm and safe 

and comfortable 

where I can take 

them out to examine,

one by one, holding each 

up to the light, 

turning it,

like a mysterious artifact,

this way

and that.

(c) 2017, By Hannah Six

Photo: Marrakesch, In den Souks, by Giggel

A moment, driving (Day 155)

 

The hills stand, black, 

against a silver sky,

Dust rides hot wind

where combines cut 

the grass 

beside the highway. 

The air takes on 

a ripe and leathery 

scent, rich patina on

the maturing day. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Matt Duncan via Pexels.com

Grand Lady (Day 125)

 

Abandoned House, Hagerstown MD

Never a grand lady,

Like those northern upstarts. 

You were even, perhaps, 

A bit careworn, compared 

With your neighbors, whose 

Fresh red confidence eclipsed 

Your plain-Jane simplicity. 

Or was your appearance 

Purposely misleading? 

You might have jealously 

Guarded the golden joy pulsing 

In your veins, familiar warmth 

Radiating comfortably 

To the scrolled tip of each 

finely-turned bone. Glimpses

Of your elegant strength,

Your faultless honesty, 

Your unwavering generosity 

—Visible only to those who 

Knew you, or who thought to look 

Beyond the customary trimmings—

Gifts you bestowed intimately,

Their secrecy lending them 

A covetable air of pricelessness.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

How We Talk Now (Day 115)

(Travel Journal Page, Laura Mandelbaum)

How we talk now 

text now thoughts through 

hands thumbs screen 

like pen on paper 

no midnight scent of ink

or glide of gold nib soft 

as caramel on a slick  

old-fashioned journal page

we can write in bed 

or on the train or in the car or 

simply speak 

our stories lives letters

poetry on the page 

in our own voices 

different voices careless 

boisterous silly strong   

tongue fingers thumbs 

an accent different from 

the gentle rolling 

hybrid print and cursive

that I used to write 

my father's mother like 

notes dashed off to mine 

now love dispatched 

post haste with 

a few taps of my thumbs

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six