Sunday, June 30, 2013
Poem 90: Tumbling
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Poem 89: Puzzling
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Poem 87: Colors the Clouds Are
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Poem 86: Lark's Lullaby
Poem 85: Upstart
Twisted, like softly-plied
Wool in your fingers,
The points of your needles
Find all the right loops--
Twisted, and wrapped, and
Pulled through and knotted,
Then folded, forgotten, in
A cupboard to which you've
Long since lost the key.
Resting in darkness, with
Others who kept you
Warm, no harm done, no
Storm damage
From tempests that once
Rose like fury between us,
Erupting in downpours
Of unspoken words.
But what seemed safe,
Now is not, and my rest is
The refuge of disused and
Misplaced loves, faces forgotten,
Our voices unknown.
You save face, we trail
Into the forest, and comfort
Each other with tales
Of our fortune and
Harrowing escapes
From your upstart heart.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Monday, June 24, 2013
Poem 84: Blackberries
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Poem #83: Tender Hearts
Friday, June 21, 2013
Poem #82: Off the Highway
Off the Highway
Sad old rusty truck
drops off the highway,
Right turn onto smooth blacktop
Smelling of tar,
In every direction waves of grass
Ripple in the wind,
Clouds of dust, circling hawk,
Silver-faced black dog barks
From a porch,
Fierce heat, screen doors,
Bleached laundry on the lines,
Sawdust floors, baseball games
Where lights are dimmed, slightly,
By thick clouds of flying insects,
Pie and coffee at the Kountry Kettle,
Settle the bill, crickets sing,
Right turn off the smooth,
Blacktop road, smelling of tar.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Poem #80: The Brick Path
The Brick Path
Is there a right way for a sweet, yellow rose to unfurl and bask gratefully under a gentle June sun?
Is there a right way for the clouds to part, while the world sleeps, setting the garden aglow with moonlight?
Is there a right was for a loyal maple, much climbed and often read under, to release its golden leaves into a bright autumn breeze?
Is there a right way for the coast to beckon to incoming swells, luring them toward an inevitable, tumbling, raucous embrace?
Is there a right way to open the gate, walk down the carefully-swept brick path to the shady road, and open our green mailbox, hoping for a letter from you?
Is there a right way, then, to sigh as I withdraw my empty hand, glancing right and left to see if a neighbor has noticed my shameful solitude?
I turn, walk back up the path, and close the gate behind me.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Entrance to the Garden Gate by T.E. Butler
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Poem #79: The Picture
Monday, June 17, 2013
Poem #78: Only Today
Only yesterday, I dragged my
Fingers through your thick, gold hair.
Only last week, I drank the last
Sip of wine from your forgotten glass.
Only last month, I stopped wearing
The bracelet you gave me on our seventh date.
Only last year, I asked to sit next to
The man with the kindest eyes I'd ever seen.
Only today, did you kiss me and
Close the door behind you with a soft click.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Photo source: www.public-domain-image.com
Poem #77: Crossings
Crossings
The best surprise,
I think, has always
been a blanket of fireflies
over a cornfield
on a June evening,
blinking...blinking...
delighting the eye
and igniting a sweet
nostalgia for a moment
that hasn't yet passed--
a moment that finds me
thinking, dreaming of
the windswept prairies
my grandmother knew
and loved, the same
rolling grasslands,
the same vast,
blue heaven,
the same shipwreck
of mountains
floating in a sea of gold
that I traverse--back
the way they came--to
the place that remembers
the weight of my step,
the curve of my hip,
the gentle kiss
of my fingertips.
She reaches out,
and draws me in
to the blinding glare
of sun on marble,
where I can breathe
in dignity, and
rest a while
on her aged breast,
dazzled, sightless,
blinking...blinking...
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Photo: USDA
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Poem #76: Rescue
Poem #75: Each
Each
You splinter the night, enter
and unravel my dreams,
a long red thread.
Panting, I wake, mired
in my bed, pushing the fright
out of my eyes and blinking at
the slanting moonlight slipping
through the shades
of you, a midnight-blue reverie
shrouded in
a damp fog of desire and
a firestorm of regrets, each
wrapped in bright, clear silver,
each a June day,
each a November evening.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Poem #73: Frames
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Poem #72: After Evening
After Evening
On this perfumed
night, frogs chirp,
in place of cricket song.
No fireflies, but slender
yellow columbine
hovers and trembles
in the dying blue light;
and tweed-hued warblers
seek the rennet,
tried and tested favorite
of all the birds who find
our sunburned feeders.
Have you never understood
the stillness
after evening's dither
or risked the
knowing empress-breath
of tulip and plum,
struck soundless
by languid wonder?
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Photo: Steve Voght
Poem #71: "Title: A Title: B Title: Nada"
Confused by this poem? See note at end.
Title: A Title: B Title: Nada
Incandescent flight pears overhead with saris
that thorn my side like glare (soleil, soleil, soleil)
more than once upon a time, etc. etc. the woman tore her hair
and stairs collapsed (de rien)
bouyant, 1-2-3, shards burst outward
can of cat food, mountain of cans (pas de probleme)
mounting anesthesia, physics realm, dream to nightmare
Oh, Belle Dame Sans Merci. Alarm.
(c) 2013 Hannah Six
Note: In 2005, I wrote this poem in response to a few purposefully "difficult" poems I'd read. While my tastes have changed/broadened since then, I continue to (strongly) prefer poetry that is at least somewhat accessible. So...this parody is still relevant.
Sunday, June 09, 2013
Poem #70: Outside the Party
Outside the Party
Late.
From the terrace,
sheared grass stretches,
gray and undefined, into
a galaxy of stars. A cool
breeze carries the scent of
seaweed from beyond
the woods. Behind her,
a door opens, releasing
the music, then subduing it
again with a soft click
of the latch. She does not turn,
but listens to the languid
pattern of his pace as he
crosses the flagstones to
the pitted concrete balustrade
that abrades her elbows.
A hushed scrape, a flare,
a dim crackling as a glowing
cigarette tip answers
the inquiry of his breath.
A sigh. The horizon
holds her eyes, drawing his
from her ice-pale face,
which glimmers. Like
snakes charmed from
their low, fat baskets, two
blue columns of smoke
meet, hesitate, and then
begin a spiraling, ascending
pas de deux.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Poem #69: The Chess Players
The Chess Players
That, he said, is exactly what I expected.
That, he said, is exactly what I expected.
From the kitchen there erupted a barrage
of clamoring pots and cupboards slamming,
until (after an eerily silent pause)
the door swung inward on its hinge,
propped open by a denim-clad hip.
The steaming platter of crisp-skinned
chicken and oven-gilded parsnips,
rutabagas, carrots and potatoes
landed in front of him with a clatter. Meanwhile the kids, wide-eyed
but otherwise expressionless, looked
--first at one, then at the other--
as if following a chess game at the
cracked concrete tables in the park,
where frighteningly old men
in sweat-darkened shirts smoked
acrid cigars and rumbled
their low, sordid laughter
at incomprehensible jokes.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Friday, June 07, 2013
Poem #68: The Quiet Ones
It isn't only the vociferous,
the fearless, the vengeful
who sing. The songs
of mid-day, of course,
belong to them:
bright songs of
glorious wars (and
more subtle battles) won
and lost; brave, galloping
songs of romance
and adventure; songs
to stir the blood and
rouse the faintest heart.
In the gentler hours, though--
when lilac mists drape
sleeping fields,
when fog stirs and roams
in solitude among the
fern-shod giants and
tumbling crags--
then softer melodies
are born. The quiet
ones, who do not boast
or brag, whose songs--more
intricate, by far--lament
the warriors lost,
the cost of worldly love
and honor eclipsed by
beauty's harsh, bleak glare.
There you will find
truth, sweet and pure,
among a low-slung
hum of honeybees, and
blowzy clouds against
a summer sky, an evening
kiss, a faint, fair lullaby.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Thursday, June 06, 2013
Poem #67: Bitter Hours
Bitter Hours
Today, autumn sprinkled
her first bitter hours.
Summer's lingering green
leaves drift on
a chill wind
—less than,
more than before—
shifting restlessly until
they are gone.
On this morning,
the cool air tousled dryly
amongst bare,
rattling branches,
and settled in heaps
against the evenings
to come.
Like a shawl,
Winter’s stillness,
enfolds the dawn,
whispering of days
aching with airless brilliance.
© 2013, Hannah L. Six
Note: Another remix, this time from 2004
Poem 66: Woman Worshipping
Woman Worshipping
Sordid chocolate woman
trudges languidly through
a luscious winter mist
—tongue always bitter, and
dreaming enormously of
cool, sweet lust
Goddess vision
—delicate
symphony, tender,
panting petal—
delirious lather of
need, worshipping
a drunk void
of eternity.
© 2013, Hannah L. Six
Note: I wrote this poem about eight years ago and, as I'm not feeling well, just adjusted the formatting for tonight's post.
Tuesday, June 04, 2013
Poem #65: The Gardener
The Gardener
No such amends,
she thought, bending
over to pinch off
a formerly-coral petunia's
withered brown
remains.
While not precisely
a pawn in his game
of catch-as-catch-can,
she (nevertheless)
exuded a deep blue
sorrow--aired it
from time to time
like a down-filled
duvet.
Later, wrapped
in its familiarity,
she would breathe in
the unmistakable scent
of sun-bleached cotton
and--for a moment--
look up.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Photo: National Garden Bureau
Monday, June 03, 2013
Poem #64: Enemy Clan
Sunday, June 02, 2013
Poem #63: Not the One
Not the One
That house, where the cedars stand so close to the bank of kitchen windows that they tap and rattle, as if asking to be let in, when the north wind roars down off mountain?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That park, whose dusty gravel walks and old, rutted roads lead to a lakeshore, where we rested on a sun-warmed boulder, and you slept with your head in my lap?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That garden, where shafts of light illuminate each floating moth, gnat, and dragonfly so they fill the air, standing out against the ancient forest like a galaxy of living stars?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That third-floor window, from which your lamp spilled a golden welcome that pooled around the gate post we leaned against and kissed a final goodnight?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That bench, worn smooth over the years, where we listened to the surf and the cool breeze stained our cheeks a vivid raspberry hue, as it had our parents' before us?
It is not the one.
It is not the one.
I am looking.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Saturday, June 01, 2013
Poem #62: A little ditty about a horrible illness with an even more horrible name
By no other name
Chronic Fatigue
Syndrome.
Fatigue.
Seriously?
Let’s talk about the long hard nights
Of fevers and sore throats,
And body aches too strong to fight,
And chills, cold sweats, and then…
We’ll spend some time on other
things,
Like memory and IQ,
Which--poof!--are gone
when illness rings,
And (surprise!) it’s for you.
Then “urgency” and IBS,
Weakness, rashes, pain…
So tell me now, or let me guess,
What is THIS called, again?
This is no common tiredness,
No day-to-day fatigue,
The illness “they” call CFS
Is, properly, M.E.*
*M.E. stands for: Myalgic Encephalomyopathy (or, sometimes, encephalomyelitis)
© 2013, by Hannah Six
Poem #61: Hometown
Hometown
I remember the still, oppressive air in the attic, where you could see logs from the original cabin our old clapboard house had swallowed whole.
I remember the scent of baking dust and pine needles that filled my nose and mouth while I toasted my skin to a golden bronze.
I remember the day I left, riding a bus across the Golden Gate Bridge, watching the morning sun burn through the fog and glimmer, pearl-like, on the great dome of the Palace of Fine Arts.
I remember promising myself that I would return home in just a few years.
I remember landing in an immense, flat gray city--suitcase, typewriter, and pillow in hand--where oil refineries lined the highway and the sky hung so low I could almost brush it with my fingertips.
I remember longing for my hometown, where mountains rose above the sea, the light glittered and glowed, and people spoke without guttural accents.
I remember the first excitement of Atlantic City, the mouthwatering greasiness of true cheesesteaks, and the gently-folded, idyllic landscape tossed, like a picnic blanket, at the city's feet.
I remember returning, one day, to the glowing, glittering, fog-shrouded city of my birth, only to find that--while I was wiping steak-and-Cheez-Whiz juice from my chin--it was no longer my home.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Photo: PDPhoto.org
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