Vivid (Day 597)

vivid oak, inspired lines etched 

on a blue September sky, vibrating 

in the thunder-scented breeze 

or dressed in your autumnal cloak,

benevolent, your splendid shade, 

extended arms embracing delightful 

June and dancing, unclothed, 

beneath November’s heartless moon,

like butterflies, your bright leaves 

pause and tremble in my dreams, 

filling the air with liquid whispers, 

secrets cloaked in some mysterious 

tongue, unspoken for a thousand years 

(or more), rending my heart with 

gentle, furrowed sighs and 

ancient soporific lullabies, then lightly 

tossing off the cloak of night, greeting 

the day fresh-faced and unadorned

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Castrocielo Lazio/MaxPixel

Looking in late at night (596)

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Jagged Edges (Day 595)

this day, 

   like a broken glass,

edges sharp and jagged,

   tears at the fabric 

      of my disbelief

and renders me 

   incapable 

of anything

   but the deep silence

     found only at the bottom 

of a pool

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Art Anderson (CC BY-SA 3.0)

via Wikimedia Commons

Haiku for Day 594

Trembling frozen light.

Smoke and thunder taint the air.

Sun-bleached windchimes pause.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Jina Lee/ Wikimedia Commons

Dimming of the Sun (Day 593)

The sun went dark today,

and not a soul noticed.

A filmy black veil drifted,

unseen, over careful autumn 

light—gold as honey, and 

drowsy as midsummer. 

No one remarked on 

the quiet shadows, 

fluttering like prayer flags 

in an oven-hot breeze. 

No one squinted into 

the afternoon’s flat glare 

to discern the source 

of treeless shade. 

Nor did anyone pause 

to gaze upon a sunless field 

beneath the cloudless sky.  

Only I, it seems, was trusted 

with this secret, was blessed 

with this knowledge and, 

like a Hollywood hero, 

determined not to cause 

a deadly panic in the streets, 

I chose to remain quiet, 

to serve as a silent witness to 

the dimming of the sun, while, 

around me, holiday-makers 

played on, blissfully, perhaps 

intentionally, unaware.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Poets and Pastors (Day 592)

cowboys and cops 

always knew 

how close we come 

to the edge when 

a round white coin 

of moon is pasted 

amidst a collage of 

pinpoint stars 

(or when some astral 

body or other is in 

retrograde) 

they understood how 

a tsunami of insanity 

awakens and rolls  

day by day

continent by continent 

sweeping everything in 

its path into a frothing 

fury of purifying fear 

but now? 

now it takes more than 

a white-hatted hero with 

a smart horse to fathom 

the fantastic truth 

embedded in this 

paper-moon world where 

up is down  unless it is up

where facts are fake and 

fiction is autobiographical 

now even philosophers

poets and pastors 

struggle to explain 

all of the needful people  

needlessly suffering 

in the fountaining dawn 

of (what must surely be)

our twilight years

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image : PxHere

Final Reckoning (Day 591)

Your father is dying.

Maybe 

it’s time (at last)

     to get over your-self 

         

and that 

     privileged childhood

you suffered

            

     through   with all its

     First-World problems.

Maybe 

it’s time (at last)

     to dance 

     with joy 

     and gratitude 

           for all 

           those things that made 

your life   

your life  

      

for all 

He made 

     damn sure 

     you’d never 

     

     never have.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere