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 #78: Only Today

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

Spearfish Canyon, South Dakota

Photo: USDA

Poem #77: Crossings

Poem #76: Rescue

Rescue

he breathed the 

usual hundred times 

drowning among the 

languid tulips 

lost in a splash

of concerned smiles 

and desperate 

clichés the 

cost of rescue 

a wink and 

a hesitant closeness 

deepening 

into a slippery trust

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Sunset Beach, Cape May, NJ

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

Poem #75: Each

Poem #73: Frames

Frames

Those are 

my grandfather's 

glasses

Black frames, 

square, with yellowed

lenses

The style 

you see in old 

movies

Somehow when 

I was young 

they didn't 

seem retro

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #73: Frames

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 #72: After Evening

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. 

Poem #71: "Title: A Title: B Title: Nada"

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

Photo: http://m.flickr.com/#/photos/kengoora/7740436150/

Poem #70: Outside the Party

Poem #69: The Chess Players

The Chess Players

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

Photo: Joye

Poem #69: The Chess Players

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

Poem #68: The Quiet Ones

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 #67: Bitter Hours

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. 

Poem 66: Woman Worshipping

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

Poem #65: The Gardener

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

Poem #63: Not the One

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 #62: A little ditty about a horrible illness with an even more horrible name

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

Poem #61: Hometown

60 Days... 60 Poems!

Consent

She, the prettier, informed 

a thousand eyes and 

I, instead, their hearts.

Those considerate 

parts, we mused, probably 

weren't taken with consent.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

60 Days... 60 Poems!

Much (Poem #59)

May not seem like much,

Petals unfurling each dawn,

Until you try it.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Much (Poem #59)

Poem #58: Dear

Dear 

Running, you cry out and 

whimper. I hurry to your side, but 

you can't tell me what hurts.

Your sweet brown eyes 

gaze into the distance, 

unseeing, focused inward. 

My heart breaks, but

you can't tell me what's wrong.

In seconds, you fall to pieces,

centered and still in an 

unfamiliar, ominous way that 

leaves me shaken and frightened, but

you can't tell me what you need.

Dear one, 

     your innocence touches me,

     your devotion thrills me,

     your love warms me, but 

I can't tell you how it hurts.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Poem #58: Dear

41st & Baltimore: Poem #57

41st & Baltimore

July, 41st and Baltimore,

sere sidewalk bleached by 

stark midday sun, 

humid air like paste on 

my skin, buckled and broken 

sidewalk undulating in 

dizzying, dappled shade. 

And there, near a hedge, 

on pavement that reflected 

the day's heat into 

night's wee hours, moving 

with excruciating purpose, 

a wholly-unexpected 

turtle. 

Stillness, soon to be split 

open, its tenderness invaded by 

cicadas' siren songs, pressed 

against my eyes and ears; 

no children's laughter, no 

stoop-sitting conversations 

in flaccid Philadelphia 

accents set to the music of ice 

chiming in sweated glasses, 

no rumbling thunder, no 

squalling subway-surface line. 

Just the turtle, 

and me. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

SEPTA 56 Line, 1980

Photo: D. Jacksich

41st & Baltimore: Poem #57