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Category Archives: POEMS

I Am Bonsai

Trained bent stunted

plucked trimmed uprooted

At times I feel I am bonsai

and life is master

Master please

set my root to ground.

by colleen hannah

suicide tonight



suicide    tonight

 in my three floor honeycomb


and gone

fly well someone’s son


-colleen hannah

This poem was written after a man committed suicide in my 3 story building. He left behind a wife, who lives with the feeling that somehow she could have done something. She could not. But when someone takes their own life they condemn loved ones, left behind, to life filled with tragedy and regret, and feelings of guilt.

The guilt of course is almost always misplaced, but no one who loves someone can ever see their way past the voices that will not subside after losing someone to suicide. The voices that say, “You should have done this, you should have done that” Yes, there is always something more or different we could do in life, but if someone chooses to hurt him or herself there is nothing, nothing, we can do to change that. We can only do what we think is right at the time, and if that is what we did, that is the only thing that matters.

Allowing the voices to spin self accusations only inhibits our ability to heal, and to help and be there for other family members. If you lost someone to suicide you have been deeply hurt, wounded to the core… but to carry on and to heal is the best way to remember your loved one.

And if anyone reads this and is considering ending their life, please, please, remember… tomorrow is a day where everything can change, and there are always so many tomorrows. Please don’t give up, and please don’t let your family and loved ones live a life of pain because you are gone.

Tomorrow is everything. Today is just yesterday when tomorrow finally comes                                                                                                                                                   -c.h.


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.)



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.


Ironic Thought

sitting in computer room checking all my sites

writing great love poetry and then I look outside

there I see the world go by and see my future die

as I see the people acting out what’s written here inside


ironic ain’t it?


-colleen hannah

in case of disaster – Japan 2011

disheveled          displaced           disaster

born on a cold March day

indurate waves destruction

please give

and then

please pray




oh murder how cruel yet fluid and flowing
a strange twist of fate tossed out of the sea
ironic in nature and nature her cruelest let
man taste her bitters and washed way his need


Blue grass hills photo stills

laughing  guy and dead fish

gills       the day is done

when banjo’s down       but

fish keep swimming still

SWIM ON STEVE                                                               SWIM ON…