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

Trout (Day 408)

Overhanging branches  speckled brown as trout 

by months of unfiltered sun and lingering 

drought   spring-fed streams   cold 

and clean on the surface   water of many 

rivers   flowing warily westward   rising 

through narrow 

chasms of  

tumbling 

boulders

swiftening under bridges built 

when mystery veiled the moon 

then 

spreading out 

into the ease of a broad delta plain.

Looking down-river   watching 

water-spiders float effortlessly on the taut skin 

of a deep-plunging pool   shady niches 

harbor insect worlds and coarse bits 

of upstream-stories drift past 

tell tale rings on the green-black surface 

where fish rise to kiss the air

and all of this will help 

you see

and all you will see 

in all of this

is an iridescent flash—a fish darting 

into shadows in front of 

or behind rocks or submerged fallen trees—

swimming impossibly fast   like a dream

disappearing before your eyes 

because they spotted you 

before you 

were able to lure them with the subtle bait 

fastened on your glinting hook.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: steinchen/Pixabay

Angel (Day 359)

Hands flower heat expands

Mist annoints an oatmeal angel

One poised dewdrop succeeds

Sirens call joy children pout

Suddenly brown petals play

Torn committees flutter

Green shadows tax the humid wind

Nearby frogs are chiding

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six 

Image: pixel2013/Pixabay

Tiger (Day 307)

Some days it stalks me

spit-snarling tiger 

   treading water 

on which my boat balances 

   precariously 

longing breeds longing

longing like a thundering 

sand-storm   

grit plunders my tongue 

my teeth longing for 

the barely-detectable crunch 

of white buttercream icing 

   you can keep your garish 

   blue roses

the splashing ceases

in the silence something 

   submerged

noses the thin hull 

below my feet

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: cuzitwasgood 

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

A Current Stirs (Day 181)

Sinuous eels flutter.

A current stirs, 

their solemn eyes peer.

Slim darting fish meld 

like sequins with sunlight, 

flashing through 

the dimpled swells.

Bemused, they swarm 

—angels swooping

toward vengeance, 

astonishing and fast.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Detail of painting by Raphael (public domain)

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.)

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

Tempest (Day 103)

Photo: Craig Lindsay

Thunderheads

piling high over the Appalachians, 

shades of 

old bruises: gunmetal, lavender,   

restless air quivers, 

birds swirl, like 

autumn leaves falling skyward,

suddenly: stillness

poised before the tempest's bittersweet 

atonement, 

absolving the world of its sins

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Mystical Creatures (Day 101)

 
there is much to be said 

for awaiting in our own 

death a return to the hidden 

past  

for how the fine dust 

of remembrance 

coats the innumerable images

of our decades   

preventing us from making out 

the fine brushwork and exquisite 

filigree embellishing the souls 

of the departed 

and those we hold 

captive in our memories

imprisoning them in our dreams

in vain we attempt 

to recapture the unsuspecting 

reminiscence hidden 

beyond the realm  

the reach of intellect

tapestries spread on the forest 

floor cushioned by centuries 

of leaves   paper-thin layers 

of sun and shade 

buoying us as we wait   

quietly yearning 

for that mystical creature 

whose appearance   we hope   

will endow us 

with the objects of our desire

only chance determines

whether we discover 

and tame the beast before 

we ourselves must die

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Kestrel (Day 75)

Kestrel hovers, calling

Calling in a plaintive cry.

Rides the wind upward

Until, wings tucked, 

He's falling, spiraling 

Bullet-like across the sky.

Other birds sit up, take 

Notice, chickadees chatter

Mourning doves sigh. 

Not for them this

Unfettered acrobatic

Winged delight. They find

Their strength among

Their numbers, migrating

By the dark of night. 

Eyes all glittering, they

Stop chittering, envying

Kestrel's solo flight.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six