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Monthly Archives: March 2011


Hi there, this blog has struggled, trying to decide what it wants when it grows up. Which is difficult because I haven’t even yet decided what I want when I grow up. Often I find myself torn between the light ( and often more juvenile type rhyming, rhythmic poetry) and the seriously serious, (less rhyme-ful state of affairs.)

I love writing about injustices I see in the world, love the aspect of taking a topic and writing a short story. All these types of genres, the different types of poetry included make me one happy little prolific writer, but not a quality assured one. I know I should, perhaps, keep each type of genre within its own blog. But for now that is just not going to happen.

I am an emotional creative type soul, which leaves very little room for the creatively organized section of my brain. Actually who’s kidding who, never had the organizational section to begin with. It was re-sectioned long before my DNA selected.
I guess what I am going on about here is, I am less than assured of my writing’s direction. So please, feel free to give me any pointers you may wish or feel compelled to point out. Because I am working on my writer’s wings and far from full-fledged. I am a writer who knows how to play with her words, but not yet an accomplished composer. One day I hope to hit post, and know, deep down, that the poem, story, or article I have written was truly inspired and technically flawless. Until then I will hit post and be confident I have had a blast writing it.

Never singing singing

Never singing singing

To his chafed

and calloused touch

To his time for him

and him alone

To his bark

that breaks my bones


Never singing singing

To the place I live a lie

To the girl gone in the mirror

To the backbone sick and dying


Never singing singing

To the children

never raised

To the spirit

dead within me

To my body

on the grave.


Just sing one note, damn you

my voice reflected cries

One single small

intensive note

is all that is required.


Without that note

I will never sing

to the place where murmurs grow

To the left and to

the wrong of those

who talk but never know


If they would only stop their natter

and intonate to me

I may some day find my voice

then singing I would leave


But never singing singing

the metronome still plays

its wicked little ticking game

I sweep

my tomb

and wait.

For those who are survivors of domestic violence, keep singing. And to those who have not yet found their voices, and are still living with domestic violence shadowing their lives… please sing the first note, and tell someone, or sing free and leave.

-colleen hannah


Sometimes there is no butterfly spread upon the page

it’s just an inkblot – just a silly spill

if all the inkblot butterflies are flying

free tonight

perhaps we’re sane and not at all that ill

Just a fun little poem about a dark subject- depression- and how many of us are not that “ill” but moreover just going through some stages and struggles in life. The butterfly has to do some struggling before it is strong enough to fly, if it is helped during this time, his wings will not be strong enough. He will not fly, he will fall. If you have gone through a tough time and think you may be needing a pill, try flying a little freer for awhile, grab a funny movie, head to the beach, take a walk though the forest or garden, and try to see why the struggle to fly is worth it.

( I am not saying doctors be damned, nor pills should be thrown out. Just saying if “normal” depression occurs, it is a natural part of life. And if you are depressed you are not sick, you are just struggling. But struggling too long is not normal, and then the doctor is always the best bet.)


7.9- Save yourself Mary (short story about earthquakes and domestic perils))




Mary walked past the kitchen- past the sink- where the old, worn, wooden spoon lay, turned in. She walked past her stove with its old covered hood- just a little grease covered- just a little grease spattered.

Everything in this house is old, she thought, including me.

There had been a time when life was young, full, and fun. Those days forged laughter and possibility.

Like the time when we bought our first house, our only house, she thought.

The Victorian looking house on Woodlands Street didn’t quite suit Mary’s modern eclectic tastes at the time. But something about the little white house, with its wrap around porch, struck her fancy. Back when love reigned over booze- if Mary saw something she liked- Harry couldn’t resist, This time was no different and Mary’s whim won out. Mary’s mother put it best. It was definitely not a planned purchase. They couldn’t afford it, but Harry was like Houdini when it came to tricking others into believing what he was selling. Most often the item on the market was himself, and that day he was selling himself as a reasonable loan risk.

Their very first purchase through the doors of the new home was a bright, azure blue, steel legged, linoleum topped table. Mary and Harold had fallen hard for it, even though they both laughed hysterically when they first laid eyes on it. The reason? It reminded both of them of a party they threw during Woodstock…1969.

Harry and Mary missed out on the real Woodstock, but that didn’t stop them from making the most of that ’69 weekend. Mary may have become a subdued and shy woman, but back before Harry changed- became hard and started hitting her- they were a fast living, fun loving couple. But more often than not their passions included seeking a drug-induced good time.

When Mary first saw “the” table in Sears– complete with its acid tripping artwork inlay- she knew she wanted it… bad. Back then, Harry wanted what Mary wanted, and thus, the table came home and was forever known as Woodstock.

To this day, Mary still loved the table. Tracing her finger around the zany patterns she would sometimes softly giggle. It gave her a sense of hope that someday the old Harry would return.

Today, as she passed the stove, Mary entered the dining area and approached the sixties style table. She began pulling out one of the brighter blue chairs surrounding it. Looking up for a moment she checked for dust on her sage green lamp. She treasured that lamp- a gift from her Mom. The fluting- flowing and smooth. Harry had given her a matching turquoise lamp to go in the living room- a gift for their first year anniversary.

A sweet gift, from a once sweet man,

Not many people in her life believed Harry could have ever been a sweet guy. To friends and family- Harry was bitter, jealous, and just a plain petty man. But Mary knew there was once a time when laughter, love, and romance came easily to him. She longed to have that Harry back. But that Harry lived a long time gone. When he left, the new, not so improved Harry- the angered alcoholic- moved in.

Just four years after they exchanged their wedding vows Harry the horrible came knocking. Mary knew she should have known better. She should have locked the door- but it was too late. Her window of opportunity slammed shut- the twins were on their way.

Now- sitting at the table- lost in the melancholy- she hadn’t noticed the house sounding alarms bells all around her. Her house- the house she had endured so much in- now swayed a whispered warning…

“Mary… it’s your time to leave.”

Looking back up to the ceiling- her normally still, normally static lamp swayed as well, Tilting and lilting- the lamp became a bell- she stared, momentarily mesmerized..

“Harry, ” she said. “Harry!”

No answer.

“Harry!!” she called again.

“What!” he replied angrily.

“The lamp… the lamp is swaying.”

“Who the hell cares,” he growled. Then he mumbled, but made sure she could hear,

“You’re an idiot, you’ll always be an idiot, now leave me alone.”

Harry didn’t like it when Mary interrupted his Wheel of Fortune.

She hesitated. It was almost dinner time. Harry would be mad if he had to wait. She knew she would wake bruised and battered if dinner came late. But something inside her was waking. And the lamp- it kept swinging. It seemed to be saying something more important than the chanced beating she would take. And for the first time in decades she disobeyed.  She didn’t know it yet, but she was ready to live.

“Harry!” she shouted.

“Woman,” he growled, “if you dare raise your voice at me once more I’ll take you and hit you upside the head. And Mary you can bet your ass I’ll kick you harder than you’ve ever been kicked before.”

But this time Mary didn’t fold, didn’t cringe. She didn’t cower or meet his demands. Her world begged attention. The lamp with its yellowed and fading light swung like a bell ringing the house borne warning.

“Save yourself Mary, Save yourself. “

Though she knew she needed to get out of the house, she just couldn’t leave Harry behind. She loved him still- though she didn’t know why. She tried, cried out to him once more,

“Harry for God’s sakes run,”

But Harry- drunk and unaware of the house’s intention towards him turned to look at her with eyes bloodshot and blazing. And Harry- with no use for God at all- in the midst of his drunk- and especially during Wheel of Fortune became… enraged. Enraged that his woman dared shout at him, he yelled back at her in his most vicious voice,

“I’m watching the TV you nag now get the hell out of my life or so help me I’ll kill you!.”

Harry didn’t mean it, at least the part about her leaving. He would have rather seen her dead than leave him. But it didn’t matter- Mary had heard the warnings, from the house, and from him. She knew whether the house shook apart or not didn’t matter. If she remained she would be dead either way. And she knew he would eventually kill her and no love, no love was worth this amount of pain. Standing there, looking at this hollow angry man before her, she finally understood there was no real love left between them, just a cheap imitation, of a cheap imitation.

The house began to shake harder, but to Mary it felt as if she was shaking off the shackles Harry had bound around her wrists. And in the midst of all the shaking- in the midst of mortal danger- she felt less fear than she had in years. Freedom finally seemed real.

And… she ran.

She ran past the kitchen, past the silvered round sinks, past the spoon- worn and dark from use. She ran past the stove- a little off-white and a little bit greasy. She ran down the hallway where her pictures all hung- her children, her family, her dogs. Seeing those faces, the tears dared to flow- perhaps for the first time in years. Oh, how she wanted to see them again. Oh, how she wanted to live. She picked up the pace, and ran for her life.

Down through the hallway, down past the laundry, where babies had played in the basket while she folded tiny clothes. Past the bathroom where her babies played in the tub with rings made of plastic- where soft fuzzy towels wrapped each baby up- their laughter still echoing throughout the halls.

Down the stairs to the basement- just seconds from safety- the house began falling, and she knew she may die. A thought came to Mary as she came down the stairs- she had never felt so alive, so ready to live her own life.

But then she heard Harry yell- not in anger- but in terror. She couldn’t help him if she wanted to- his fate had been sealed when he ignored her earlier plea. She heard him cry out for her one last time…”I love you Mary-Bell,” She stopped for a moment… she knew he had meant it at least for that moment. But she kept on running and running through the basement door she ran straight into safety in the arms of a stranger. He helped her make it those last few yards away from the danger of the collapsing house.

Turning round, as she reached the far corner of the yard, she sought her footing beneath a weeping willow tree. And- as she held on to that sad little willow- she watched her beloved house- with its prison walls- crumble and fold like she had for so many years.

Later when the shaking- the insecurity- ended, she looked back to the house once more. Harry didn’t make it, but at least she knew she had tried to save him. She also knew a new life waited- outside the sadness of those four walls. She didn’t have much, but she didn’t need much, because Harry had died which meant she could start living.

The earthquake registered a 7.9 –  and rescuers told Mary there had been no warning tremors, that the earthquake had started with one large jolt. Whatever she felt before the main earthquake, they explained, could not have come from the 7.9. But Mary just smiled she didn’t need an explanation, she knew her house had been on her side.

This story was inspired from the combination of  writing “NEVER SINGING SINGING” a poem about domestic violence, and the events of the devastating earthquake in Japan 2011. I thought this story would be a good comment on the perils of both, and how each is so alike in their destructive forces.

This story is not completely edited yet and if  you are willing- I am willing to hear any critiques.  I have one question I wouldn’t mind help with- should I end the story at the second to last paragraph – ending in the words “- crumble and fold like she had for so many years.”
I don’t know which ending to choose- the one I have now or the one two paragraphs before. I feel both work but perhaps the second ending is too much of an explanational* ending.(*not a word but works for me LOL) But if you like the current ending please let me know. And if you like the current ending the way it is please let me know as well. Thanks for reading, and thanks if you gave any suggestions.

-honeydew keyboard-


My man

My man is waiting

And I

Am on the keys

Stuck to them

Like they’re honeydew trappings I’m a fly

Without her wings


colleen hannah

stuck on the keys again tonight

❉My lover’s quest❉



Walk the sea

where you take up

my quest – creation’s purest

pearled white rocks

rolled in rolled out

of nature’s love



✍ colleen hannah

This poem is about the first time my boyfriend and I went to the beach together. I, the ever romantic, decided to send him on a quest- a quest to find the most perfectly clear, pure white, perfectly rounded, tiny white rock. I thought I had an amazing quest that would take months if not years to find. I said… jokingly, go forth and find me this perfect white rock.” He did… bout five seconds later.
Woo that was some quest eh?

domiciliary crows

Attempted domiciliary the CROWS are nesting near

Mama calling caws from high above

Papa does his best

to pick up needed sticks getting








by çolleen hannah

-we will find it in the spring-

ancient clouds let go

the splash of wellspring sprinkling

a splatter splosh and sparge

of rainbow’s fill all twinkling

and gold lays just beyond

the search is just beginning

chances are

we will find it in the spring


✾ colleen hannah



One hundred days not much to ask

One hundred days in which to act

with qualities of humanness

instead of apathy

Not much to ask you please.


A few little macro shots of my funny little life

These little micro-poems came from a twittered head. I tweet the day away on keys and should have been in bed, but… with little sleep and tons of tweets I’ve made this page instead. I hope you have fun.


five fifteen it’s time to go where snow is up and up is no and no is yes but yes is spleens and spleens are clocks talking five fifteen.


Time all bottled up/ no way to get inside but/ if i could/ I surely would/ ride the circadian tide.


the world is just too wounded/ for me/ tonight a/ while in my dreams a/ while in my dreams/ then I’ll wake/… I’ll have to wake 


jacked and jumbled/ tumbled and tacked/ to the wall/ to the wall/ wallow and weeping seems useless to me so I’ll pick up the pity and go.


You poor poor tired brain/ the drain is being circled/ betwixt between the synapsis scene/ and easy over addled.


pod alert ferry right side/ dolphin smile off port/ cavorting canines in a salty sea/ puppies in a playground of bleak black water


Fuddle Dee muddily mired/ the pups are soaked and tired/ they’re soiled and wet/ worn out and yet/ one nap and they’ll be wired

All poems in “A few little macro shots of my funny little life” were written by me – Colleen Hannah