An Uncommon Crowd (Day 36)

Photo: Paul Sableman

An Uncommon Crowd

An uncommon crowd 

crushed the town, 

taking care to explain 

his impertinent proposal.

We waited, leaden, ground 

to diamonds by the casual 

processions—silent circuses 

of nostalgic longing. 

Ice chimed against the rippling 

sidewalks. It was like this, 

they warned, and we hung 

on to the raveled edge 

of every magic carpet 

they unfurled, bound as we 

were by blood and spirit. Yes, 

we sighed, that was their world. 

And now? Heads bowed, we 

glowed, endowed with

phosphorescent wisdom,

ridiculous, assured. 

The darkness whispered: 

Neither moment matters.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Leaves (Day 35)

 

Softly, leaves unfurl

Turn trembling faces sunward

Wings poised for first flight

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Their Unfortunate Crime (Day 32)

 

Photo: Jacob Riis

Their Unfortunate Crime

Those people  there, 

not we   not us   not me     they 

are the problem   See them  

leaning on that wall 

Sitting cross-legged in the dirt 

that collects like unpanned gold 

beneath their nails

The rusted old cars in their 

sere yards choked with weeds

The flies   the mud   the guarded 

bloodshot eyes of their 

sweating bloated babies

Lord   We should adopt them all 

what kind of parents would

soldiers could   kids delirious 

in hooded jackets   pants down 

to there   Thank God   

they are not    here   we are not 

there    not them   they are 

not us   and that 

in our westernized opinion 

is their most unfortunate crime

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tell Me How (Day 30)

Photo: Atchoo, via WikiMedia 

Tell Me How

Tell me about the dandelion 

weightlessness of fine blonde hair 

in a deep tub of warm water

Tell me about the hushed 

porcine grunts and whimpers 

made by a litter of nursing pups, 

aquiver with urgency, while 

their mother, eyes half open,

rests patiently on her side

Tell me how, when the fog 

rolls in from the darkness,

an echoing silence descends 

on the harbor, muffling 

the thunder of waves 

against the jetty, while 

magnifying the commonplace,

rendering each overheard voice 

an unexpected intimacy

And tell me how—when you 

last saw her, and took her 

in your arms to wrench 

a final goodbye from the aching

 knot in your chest, 

you suddenly realized 

that, for a moment, she knew 

who you were 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

It Begins in the Middle (Day 12)

It begins
in the middle, a burning
and a shutting out
of light, without smoke.
The language is
foreign, yet it
muddies and makes
itself a nuisance
an indifferent ice
of interference, looping
through mind and mouth.
That stagger, drunken
weaving on
ironclad legs, stiff,
unbendable.
The breath goes
in horizontally,
an odalisque, or a body
on a marble slab.
The breath goes
out, a shushing trail.
The breath goes
in, day slides
into night in a slick shallow
motion, like that
of an uncooked egg
slipping off
a spoon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

A Haiku for Day 11

No. 11

Pretentious sunset,
Spinnakers ablaze, trailing
Temperate afternoon

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: D Ramey Logan via Wikimedia