Deep Thoughts on a Norwegian Email (Poem 250)

the day ends looking 

at his call: drones 

for retail bidders

fractal: infinite pattern in love

with all others perplexed, cross, indifferent 

bitter yelling: so, fortune hunting 

any that were booty calls?

post script: in order to get good 

tabouli, why not let her pilot 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Out of the Silence (Poem 249)

The water, a silk scarf, pooled teal; 

a door slammed at the foot 

of the cliff; and out of the silence, 

a wall [navy, brown, colors repeated] 

arose. Not a guttural animal 

in the mountains beyond, 

but a cry, a calculated move. 

The sky above my pencil intended

to draw attention, scratching 

on the rough cold to convey 

pitiful suffering. Pressed, we both

knew the paper, like the wind, 

in truth, did not exist. Blustering 

in the shadows of the wall, was he; 

evergreens were the only sound,

a well-planned retribution. 

Emerald-tender grass spread

like an indictment, a rich carpet

laid at my feet: My hopes, 

my feelings, and my needs

welcomed and sustained me.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Big Mistakes (Poem 248)

He was never afraid 

to make big mistakes. His 

ugliest canvas hung, like 

a billboard, in Times Square. 

His memorable Carnegie Hall 

debut was marred by many 

a forgotten lyric. That's why 

I failed to trust him 

to hang the sun in the sky,

to hang the moon, which 

was probably a good thing, 

because if I had trusted him 

with celestial bodies 

I might have, eventually, 

trusted him with my heart.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Reminder (Poem 247)

Here, in this moment

Breathe: All is well, all is well

Now, and now, all's well

(c) 2013,  by Hannah Six

Candles (Poem 246)

Warm, but cold, the room

looks blue, old carpeting

tan, dark windows shutting

their eyes 

on the shortest day 

of the year. I am here;

home is where you are, 

which is not in this chill

graying room with me.

Candles, I hear, bring

a spark of life to a room

such as this. When my match

kisses their vulnerable white

wicks and flares, it's clear

they are right. I light some more,

then watch their dancing flames

whipping the darkness back 

into the small corners

of this room.

 (c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Past Imperfect (Poem 244)

Outside, the sun, a clear winter 

day; inside the sofa sinks 

and swells, an old friend's

warm embrace, a deep well

of comfort and strength.

Someone else chose it and

treated it gently, as if knowing

it would someday be mine. 

Like the wind-chimes that thrill 

to the wind in my yard, 

and my favorite chair--

where I knit, write, and dream,

and brush kitty's luxurious hair--

the few things I own don't just 

fill up my home. I delight

in the items I choose, and 

the histories of those 

that have been loved and used. 

As my grandmother said 

way back when: Everything 

old becomes new again. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six 

On Illness (Poem 243)

From without, betrayal can 

     rob your life of love,

     turn a summer day 

     to gray, a sparkling 

     sea to mud.

From within betrayal can 

     rob your love of life,

     suddenly your faith is gone,

     the songs you hummed

     fall silent.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six