Sep 15
poem 0 comments challenge: Stars
Hannah Campbell's picture

Shooting Star

if you are a shooting star, like me, the world dances by you so fast
and if you close your eyes for just one moment--even blink, you'll miss it,
you'll have gone past,
a flaming, fiery fit.

in these brief few moments of my life,
as i'm plummeting to the earth,
my tail cuts like a knife,
quickly spiraling to its terf:

i can see all the men and women
and i can see all of their lives
and i can see all the babies and children
and i can see all husbands and wives

i can see all the trees
i can see all the flowers
i can see all the bees
i can see all the strength of a waterfall's power

but in my jubilant, vigorous flight
as the twilight forest visions and tight hand-holdings flit by,
my core feels sullen, quiet, not right 
and my spark sputters out a bit and i feel a tiny sigh:

for even though i have been honored to see
Aug 16
Hannah Campbell's picture

Mother // A response to the Song of Amergin

I am deeply sorry in advance. This is not one of my strong pieces, nor is it really even a poem. It's just a collection of words and thoughts, which I might somehow turn into an actual something, someday. They are just phrases; please pass no judgement upon it.

You are the rocky cliff by the storming sea in which I set my chipped, dusty pillars on
You are the strong, strong wind which I carry my battle-scarred wings upon
And the forests and leaves floating down which my hawk eyes pierce

You are the ocean waves in which I shall ride upon, floating on chaotic seas
You are my animal guide which warm, red fur and bright, soothing, gentle brown eyes and that long tail to wrap around me
And you are the sunny flavors of vivid red strawberries on my tongue 

You are the pitch black heavy-footed mare which beats upon my freshened meadows
You are the watchful deep eyes, carressing me to sleep 
Aug 04
Hannah Campbell's picture

'I Love You'

Jul 10
Hannah Campbell's picture

Silently They Grow

This poem's not really that good, it was written kind of sloppily so I apologize. I don't really like putting unfinished work up here, but I wanted to try and keep up with the Summer of Stories.

Silently they wage a war against us,
Quietly they creep.

Silently they climb up through broken, deadened concrete,
Quietly they break it apart.

Silently their tendrils grab our feet and wind through our toes,
Quietly they twist.

Silently they unfurl their tiny, emerald sprouts,
Quietly they climb.

Silently they grow, despite our plastic things,
Quietly they dodge around.

Silently they whisper, gentle songs to the insects,
Quietly they sway.

Silently they encroach with their twisted, gnarled trunks,
Quietly they shake their branches.

Silently their seeds fall down,
Quietly they take root.

Silently they fight,
Quietly they keep up.
Jul 09
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A Word from a Proud Luddite (Outsider Part Five)

     I have always disliked the Internet. I know how it has now become a renowned part of our world and our society, supposedly giving us opportunities for connection and fame. I don't deny that; if I did, I would be a hypocrite. For instance, Young Writers Project would not exist on the same multitude, and many people would not have had this great opportunity to share our voices. The Internet gives us places where we can meet people online, and connect with others like us. It gives us easy access to spread information, and to learn about it. It is a great tool, if used correctly. It is both an entire encyclopedia which can be used to educate ourselves, and it is a connecter which can be used as a tool for empathy and peace.
Audio download:
Jul 05
Hannah Campbell's picture

Seval's Conundrum - Cinquian

May 18
poem 0 comments challenge: General
Hannah Campbell's picture

Witch - Outsider Part Three

Condemned and damned,
She throws her head back and wails
Like her heart has been torn out and is bleeding heartily
A blood so red, brighter than the breast of a robin
Or the rosy-red ruby of Snow White's fabled lips
And her screams are like a rabbit that has been picked up by a hawk
Of talons so sharp and deep
That they not only mutilate her heart but slice apart her soul
Why would they do this—were they not her kin?
Was she not a faithful, God-fearing woman?
But a witch who had contrived to make young children
Squirm and twitch and cry out in jagged pain,
Despite having a young babe of her own?
And that who now has sunken in the mud
Of a rotten, stinking pond
Should be the one nuzzled beside her breast;
How could she have had a voice
When it was he who can beat and call upon God
He who always would be the master of the home and all else,
He who could drink upon one pint of oak mead,

May 01
Hannah Campbell's picture


Such a precious thing.
I watch it, as it sits,
and stares back at me.
Its flank rises up and down
and the eyes dart over at me
and watch me intensely. 
Will she move?
is she coming towards me?

Its small pink nose twitches
and its squirrel tail stands alert
like a sentry on the watch
Now I watch
as it brings its delicate human hands
towards its softened, whiskered muzzle
and daintily nibbles a piece of
which I do not know.
But now it's done,
and lies its gentle horsehead down.
one ear smaller than the other,
a single bright eye
a little bit
and more tired,
and closes its eyes,
that I
will not hurt her.
Apr 29
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She - Outsider Series Part Two

 Out of her crib too soon,
She might stumble and fall.

She wants a fresh start,
but her life hasn't begun.
She wants a blank slate, but
already has a new sheet of paper.

She wants a new song
but doesn’t realize
She already sings it,
and it’s pretty.

She wants more adventures
to discover,
and She wants more paint
to paint her pictures

But most of all

She’s afraid,
and She just wants someone to love her
and doesn’t realize

I already do.