Light Falls (Poem 242)

The radio sings 

sweetly and soft

light falls 

from the window

landing 

in a gentle splash

of that particular 

honeyed gold 

so utterly irresistible 

to well-fed cats and 

winter-weary women.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Faded Flannel (Poem 241)

Evening turns down

the moon and night 

falls. I hear you

calling my name--

but, no... It's just

yesterday's dream

following me as I

crawl between these

faded flannel sheets.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Fresh Pot (Poem 240)

"Well, at least that's over with!"

She pulled the dish towel 

from her waistband with 

a locker-room-worthy snap.

Those of us lingering

over coffee at the table

held our breath for a moment 

until, from the next room,

the television's hum 

broke the silence. Relief

seeped into the room, with 

the fragrance of a fresh

pot of coffee. The conversation 

continued, and someone 

reached out to cut another 

slice of pecan pie.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Gratitude (Poem 239)

Three days ago, the sun 

shone. We were filled with joy 

at the sight of it. Yesterday, too,

it woke us, brilliant light slanting 

through the blinds, and we 

smiled back. Today, when 

a furtive cloud caused a few 

moments of dimness, we scowled. 

"Oh, no!" we cried.

Gratitude is a demanding mistress. 

What would happen if 

you were as charmed the 

thousandth time he opened 

the car door for you 

as you were on your first date?

How would the world change if, 

when she bakes your favorite 

chocolate cake on your birthday

once more, you tell her you are 

astonished, and grateful? 

If what seems common and 

to-be-expected are, in reality, 

nothing more than abundant 

miracles we have not earned, 

do not deserve? This joy

that hauled you out of despair

is, like all things, impermanent--

it does not belong to you.

Open your heart to the coquette 

who, ignored, robs you of wonder,

and you will find her, instead,  

a generous and loyal friend, who 

--when you've forgotten today's

good fortune--will sit with you,

spread an album across your knees,

and show you her pictures.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Waves (Poem 238)

Indigo, aqua

Ocean rises heavily

Then folds into waves

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

One Eye Open (Poem 237)

We never wore shoes

in the summertime, or

hardly ever, 

anyway. We ran wild,

clambered through creeks

and the dusty eaves

of each others' houses,

hacked through brambles

and roamed across town

in search of a friend,

or a swim, or a perfect,

ripe peach whose honey-

sweet juice would gush

like love over our chins

and hands. And all 

the time, we were barefoot,

keeping one eye open

for glass shards glinting

in the hard sun, and 

the other open for glimpses

of the women we would become.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

El Camino Real, Burlingame, CA

Photo: Wikipedia Commons

Things Changed (Poem 236)

Things changed and change 

   changed and then 

her normal life was lost

   and strange   far out of 

range beyond  those mountains 

    there and those ones too 

she cared about her people 

there and cared for these 

as well    but time will tell who 

cares for her 

sometimes    he's walking 

back and walking    backtracking 

back to her in shoes whose soles 

are worn    his shoulders warm 

with sun and hard 

with snow    he'll go back some 

day and when he does she knows 

she'll pack her bags 

and head his way and walk 

those roads    touching 

with each step she steps

the bits of sole he left 

behind him when 

things changed.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six