In Darkness, He (Day 170)

Often, 

in darkness, he 

sends his dogs 

to dig, to jail, 

or to crop, and 

until they return,

muzzles coated 

with mud and worse, 

he threads 

his needle 

with the guts 

of freedom.   

Headed uphill, 

he believes he is

given to empathy. 

He nods to 

the left  

a motion he wants 

to make, but he insists, 

they

may not skip

the vows 

of trust and loyalty.

In darkness, now, he

aims 

his twisted dream 

at certain angels 

of our better nature,

and tightens

his finger.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Original Image: Benjamin Applebaum

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

Four Hours Later (Day 168)

More than four hours later, we emerge, 

squinting into a July afternoon, absorbing 

its heat into blood, fingers, and toes. 

More than four hours and yet we know 

—is this even possible?—less than 

when we arrived. Did they hear what I said? 

No, the thick summary tells me. What I sensed, 

was true. 

While you read your book and simmered in 

a stew of frustration, boredom, helplessness; 

while the aides arranged their upcoming vacation 

days; while I stared at the walls in a haze 

of pain and killers of pain, a few people 

worked, very slowly, at 

not finding answers, not offering a single comfort, 

not understanding the meaning of “cannot stand 

or walk on it”, not making accurate notations.

When all was said and done, we walked away with 

an assurance that a bone I never suspected was 

broken or dislocated is, in fact, intact.

They told me I needed to lose weight—I am a woman, 

after all—then politely, but soundly, dismissed me. 

And that—believe me—was a skill 

at which they were very practiced, indeed.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: A Souvenir, John William Godward, 1920

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

Not Now (Day 166)

There are stories to tell

But not here, not now,

At this time my brain

Won’t participate.

Maybe, when I’ve slept well,

My fog will clear and 

This slow train of thought 

Will accelerate.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Image: Le Pont de L'Europe, by Louis Émile Anquetin, 1889)

Suddenly, a Flash (Day 165)

Suddenly, a flash of autumn 

splashes across the glittering 

pavement. Hand-clasped 

couples sway close to whisper, 

then they part, gliding, floating

toward the flame: a relucent scene, 

framed by doors thrown wide 

open to the jasmine-perfumed night.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

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