Ann Keys Colton

"From rage to page to stage" the freedom of writing down the pain

Using poetry to free the childhood traumas or pain by addressing an issue such as a convent upbrining, writing a journal and pick a topic from the journal to write about, this leads to talking. I did creative writing classes with the womans aid refuge and through gentle writing exercises the women began to write short poems about their ordeals, getting their hurt and pain on paper instead of their faces. I also worked with the elderly who need to be acknowledged for their age and creativity.

I would like to get involved with groups of individuals, introduce poetry or journalling, make it fun and hopefully free them from some of their pain -> contact me

A few samples of my writing
OMAGH, 'The virgin Plaine'

Streets strangled in whispers no soul yells boarded shop-fronts bow in anger remembering fills my aura in winters coat encased in ply-wood. Men who sweep weep in powerhose cherryred backbreaking strokes towards drains that lead to the river Strule, it rises and wails falls and weeps like lava scratching seaweed to sand onward to some Atlantic outlet resting on open sea, although memories flow less easily. (dedicated to the devestating omagh bomb.)


You should have worn the sign 'prod' instead you fashioned 'lets dance' forget the lillies of the land dance the six counties waltz over brook and river bed sedate in the notion of love oblivious to mad July and Martyrdom tripping over fields of jade of harvest moons like the red bellied salmon, ready for upstream spawning, until in spite the angler casts his bait, our petals bowed, you should have worn the sign 'prod'

Wall Of Fear

Wars within wars within homes within parks and over-run estates that gnarl over ploughed fields. Wars, verbal spewing contests upon wings of vultures picking from round table talks. Don'ty tear my extensions, my blood to war in words of treacle to stir lin. Wars within wars Within homes within me.




If I said my life was once filled that I fell for a sailor flew on a whim to Newyork my ability to jive held me in great esteem. Now all you see is a frail frame hung together with the stubbornness of youth. You tip my chair, wheel me to the window same spot talking to me in that childish mannar like my mind and memory had dissolved with age. can i tell you im capable of conversing my heart, alertness of mind is devoid of spanning years. Hello nurse, talk to me.


Her eyes layered in guilt bore no sparkle nor essence of warmth re-afferming the secrets that lie in caverns and crypts in minds and pores a spirit in no mans land prizing ajar the lid of light.


Silence echoed, steps slippery on moist grass soft algie lapped in clumps against the lakes edge, no chattering mouths tuned into gossip no questions asked or answered. Nature huffed at my intrusion so late stars greeted my affection for them almost humming as I gazed unafraid of their wonderment absorbing like a sponge the calm. an otter splashed, disturbing my peace as I his I thought about life, the swapping of data how beloved escape is, how my energy rebuilds itself for tomorrows marathons.

Poetry Therapy
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