• 101
    Best Websites
    for Writers

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the 101 Best Websites for Writers download.

  • Poetic Asides

2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

Categories: Poetry Challenge 2012, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog.

I hope the challenge has been giving you plenty to write so far. I can’t believe I’m already 6 poems deep into April (and today’s poem is probably my favorite up to this point).

For today’s prompt, write a hiding poem. You could be hiding. Someone else could be hiding. Something could be hidden. Or maybe there could even be a hidden meaning. I’m flexible with any interpretations poets want to put on the prompt. Have at it.

Here’s my attempt:

“Too Quiet”

There are times
the silence

pulls my pulse
out of me

and fills my
heart with blood

so that it
feels likely

to explode
in my chest

but then I
find little

Will hiding
and laughing

it up in
a corner

and I feel
glad to be

alive and
have a boy

who knows how
properly

to mess with
his old man.

*****

Book Publishing Options Today: What’s Right for You?
by Kelly James-Enger

Full-time freelancer Kelly James-Enger covers topics such as what the various publishing options are for writers, which ones are best in which circumstances, the fastest way to publish your book, and more.

Click to continue.

 

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts
  • Print Circulation Form

    Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

509 Responses to 2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

  1. mschied says:

    Poker Face

    It seems set in stone
    like an ivory carving
    shaded with foundation and rouge

    To the unaware observer
    there is little to see

    but to one who knows her well
    the lips tighten in anger
    eyelids drop in defense
    nose flares in frustration
    an eye twitches a need for sleep
    one brow raises in inquiry
    one corner of her mouth raises in amusment
    and a full set of teeth radiate contentment

    Her every wrinkle an open book
    for the world to see

  2. Impossible to Hide

    Futile, trying to shush the Emperor,
    his voice amplified as if he’d shoved
    a microphone to his mouth or bellowed
    through a megaphone found discarded
    on the littered ground after protestors
    had been rounded up and sent home or,
    with bound wrists, transported to jail.

    I argue with myself. You believe in
    “stigma-busting,” right? You taught
    a course on Literature and Madness,
    yes? You know mental disorders have
    a biochemical basis and are not caused
    by bad parenting, so why can’t you
    just relax when he talks in public?

    Because he’s talking crazy, I answer
    myself (although that word’s charged)
    and I don’t want people shunning him
    or being afraid he’ll act like characters
    in psycho-movies act because he won’t.
    If he were your son, you’d feel the same,
    right? But he is my son, myself says.

  3. Mike Bayles says:

    Alchemy

    Trying to find gold
    hidden in lead
    can be a daunting task
    with all that goodness
    engrained
    in another substance
    in context,
    something that can only be changed
    if you believe,
    like the effects of words
    from a friend
    who gave me light
    in the midst of misery,
    but now relegated to memories
    shining through years
    when I see
    the glisten of her eyes
    reflections reflected in time
    all that chemistry.

  4. Mike Bayles says:

    Alchemy

    Trying to find that gold
    hidden I lead
    can be a daunting task
    with all that goodness
    engrained
    another substance
    in context,
    something that can only be changed
    if you believe,
    like the effects of words
    from a friend
    shared with me,
    who gave me light
    in the midst of misery,
    but now lost and gone
    and relegated to memories.
    On a cloudy day
    I look into light of memories
    shining through years
    to see the glisten of her eyes
    reflections reflected in time,
    all that chemistry.

  5. Mike Bayles says:

    Alchemy

    Trying to find that gold
    hidden I lead
    can be a daunting task
    with all that goodness
    engrained
    another substance
    in context,
    something that can only be changed
    if you believe,
    like the effects of words
    from a friend
    shared with me,
    who gave me light
    in the midst of misery,
    but now lost and gone
    and relegated to memories.
    On a cloudy day
    I look into light of memories
    shining through years
    to see the glisten of her eye
    reflections reflected in time,
    all that chemistry.

  6. cstewart says:

    Hiding Poem

    He sat in a comfortable chair,
    And looked down as he read,
    His earphones clamped to his head,
    Buffered and in the imaginary,
    He pursued his own thoughts
    Inside his tower of complacency.

    I looked, and he was so far away,
    By choice and by temperament,
    His double binding of emotion,
    And predetermined conclusion.
    We appeared to withstand the stalemate,
    Within which, all winners were losers.

  7. Paoos69 says:

    The Hiding

    A gentile manner
    A sophisticated smile
    That reaches the lips
    But fails to reach the eyes

    A dignified manner
    Almost a chip on the shoulder
    Even so a grace
    That fools a following

    Why is simplicity
    More often taken for a ride?
    Why does that aura of simplicity
    Take all the pride?

    Is the world so naïve
    So foolish in fact
    That it fails to see
    That hiding, that disguise?

  8. Day 6
    4-6-2012

    Write a hidden poem.

    Who knew?

    At the exit opening of the drive-through building
    where I drop off cans for recycling
    at Schnitzer’s Scrap Metal
    I stare at the twisted gleaming pile of silver
    backdropped by muted shades of gray
    and random heron flapping over green boughs
    a sculpture hidden from the world in a junkyard
    mufflers arranged
    worthy of Tara Donovan.

  9. foodpoet says:

    Hidden

    In the encroachment
    of time wind driven seeds hide
    the mark of man

  10. Natalija says:

    DARKNESS OBSCURES

    darkness conceals
    all that is real
    that which light
    so strongly reveals

    memories flood back
    in this night’s black
    of a time long gone
    one fondly looked upon

    beneath the years
    laughter and tears
    one so innocent and vulnerable
    replaced with one less gullible

    a time of youth
    long since passed
    years gone by
    with wisdom amassed

    light interrupts
    what darkness obscures
    revealing a truth
    of which we’re unsure.

  11. po says:

    Invisibles

    First, try to look or be poor.
    Better yet, homeless
    or break down by the side
    of the road. Then you
    are only visible to truck
    drivers and good samaritans.
    Second, change your appearance
    to look old, fat, or handicapped.
    Combine any of the above
    and no one will look your way.
    Or, as we all know, wallflowers
    and nerds are invisible
    to the dating world.
    Now, open your eyes, lend your
    heart to the fractured invisibles.

  12. deringer1 says:

    Fine, Thank You.

    Shall I introduce myself?
    just an average person
    trying always to smile and be pleasant.

    friends? oh, sure, lots of them
    always there when I need them,
    always ready for the fun times

    how am I? oh, just fine today
    thanks for asking.
    I am so blessed and doing great !

    Yes, my family is well,
    no, no problems at all.

    How does my mask look?

  13. mlcastejon says:

    This is something that was hiddend for too long, me.

    Off-spring

    Behind other people faces
    Buried my voice
    Muted my dreams
    Living in black and white
    I run in slow motion
    Until the winter came.

    Now my hands are blooming
    Everything is fulll of new hats.

  14. tunesmiff says:

    HIDDEN HEARTS

    Watching the tide roll in,
    Thinking ’bout way back when,
    We were the best of friends;
    What happened?

    Sun slowly sinking low,
    Shadows begin to grow,
    Sorry, but I don’t know,
    What happened.

    Like a buried treasure, a pirate’s chest;
    Two different maps, each with its own “X”,
    Seabirds along the shoreline;
    When did you hide your heart?
    When did I hide mine?

    Footprints in the sand,
    Two lovers hand in hand;
    It’s almost more than I can stand;
    What happened?

    Broken shells wash back with each wave,
    Like the promises we both gave.
    It’s not too late for us to save,
    What happened.

    Like a buried treasue, a pirate’s chest;
    Two different maps, each with its own “X”,
    Seabirds along the surfline;
    When did you hide your heart?
    When did I hide mine?

    Castles blown down by the breeze;
    Didn’t we build some of these?
    Won’t you help tell me, please,
    What happened?

    Standing beneath the stars,
    Trying to find the one that’s ours;
    How did we get this far?
    What happened?

    Like a buried treasure, a pirate’s chest;
    Two different maps, each with its own “X”.
    Shorebirds along the surfline;
    When did you hide your heart?
    When did I hide mine?

    When did you hide your heart.
    Where did I hide mine?

  15. Jamal Abboud says:

    Ancient And Odd Love
    My love to you is ancient and old
    See, we are living in an odd world
    I have adored you at my earliest age
    Long before I became strong and strange
    Since I was my parents’ heavenly gift
    Sucking at my mother’s holy breast
    Guarding the other with a delicate fist
    And my eyes of selfishness calmly fixed
    Into hers that lovingly watched
    Or when she touched my nose and kissed
    When I clung on to her skirt
    In streets of fears of common reality
    So I weaned on love of your beauty
    Then, I grew up, a man, I thought
    I craved for you and desperately sought
    Among all women, which was a mystery
    Your eyes were in one, the hair on another
    I see you in all women, so I wonder
    Of a fact, here, of a blurred figure
    Am I seeking for you in a feminine coat
    Or for the tenderness of my mother?

  16. maxie2 says:

    AT THE READY

    The game is simple
    and everyone knows
    the rules:
    Hide.
    Seek.
    Find.

    But, to play
    to win, to stay hidden
    one must
    Seek,
    Find,
    Hope.

  17. Lynn Burton says:

    Secrets (a Lune)

    Our darkest secrets
    are barely
    beneath the surface

  18. cajun75 says:

    Treasure

    Pirates and gold
    Treasure and silver
    Doubloons and coins
    The lure of riches

    Property located
    Many a mile inland
    Mama digging in the dirt
    Under a tree, beside the brook

    Convinced buried treasure
    Was on the land
    But how was that possible?
    Five hundred miles from sea

  19. donnellyk says:

    GETTING “READY”

    Hairpieces and perhaps a “bumpit” for volume and height, camouflage that silver sneaking in with highlights.
    Eyebrow pencil to feather some of those suckers in you overplucked back in the day.
    Eyeliner for the “cat’s eye”, only a steady hand will do, streetwalker sultry.
    Concealer for those dark circles and line your inner eyelid with white pencil, so you fool others you do not party all night or have insomnia. Or are a single mom raising small curtainclimbers.
    Now for some faux lashes, natural look or vampy tramp, be sure to curl them with an eyelash curler.
    For the smoky eye, some khol and highlight those browbones, blend, blend blend.
    Why, there’s no blush on your cheeks, a stroke or two on the apples will do and of course it goes without saying that your foundation must be a nice natural base that can cover imperfections over a good primer.
    Spackle on some high pigment gloss, slide those lips over a nice pearlized set of professionally whitened bicuspids. This only the beginning of creating our top to toe beauty, the “real deal”.
    Smooth pore tightening cream and shea butter over those freckles down the throat to disguise any signs of an emerging turkey neck or crepe skin, slather on scented body cream, preferable with a pearlized glow.
    We have privately tweezed or trimmed hair that doesn’t belong there, on eyebrows, noses, armpits, groin, legs and even across a couple toes where they like to hide, embarassing us when women friends admire our glittery sandals sporting glittering polished and filed toes Neat enough to eat in a “berry good night” shade..
    Make sure your undergarments give you appropriate support, shaping you into as close a perfect female form as what we see in magazines, movies or television, lace is manditory.
    Adorn your arms with jingly jangly bracelets and rings that catch the light (after you have used a good hand moisturizer and your manicure is flawless, and you’ve glued on some artificial nails on those stubby little misshapen fingers if necessary. French style is lovely and “ladylike”.
    Tightly encase your torso with spandex that will camouflage any unsightly bulges. After a nice swipe of some heavily perfumed antiperspirant, spritz yourself with a lovely fresh body spray that has you smelling like fields of poppies. Thoroughly wash your private parts, trim and perfume them so as to not offend. It’s a shame to be without a nice glowing tan, but stockings cover a multitude of spider veins and imperfections, preferably “Control Top” with breathable panty. Sand your feet and lotion them to a baby’s behind softness, toenail paint should match your manicure and your outfit, don’t you think?
    Now don attire that most resembles someone you are not, slip on some stilletos, and POOF we are hidden.
    If we haven’t frightened you off, come in close, We’ll tell you a secret…we will hide in anyway we can to avoid you seeing who we are. We don’t know who we are, many of us. Be gentle, just tell us we are beautiful.

  20. KarenWalcott says:

    boy fast counts to ten
    girl shivers under table
    boy walks past clueless

  21. shann says:

    Sweet Slumber

    must be hiding under the bed tonight,
    maybe it’s gone over the transom
    in the next room, I don’t hear the kids
    stirring anymore, only the rustle of wind
    knocking branches against the windows.

    Too cold for Easter Sunday 6 am service,
    sunrise won’t come soon enough to warm
    the brave few who’ll wake up early to watch
    a fire built on the sidewalk near the garden,
    we’ll light the paschal candle and run inside.

    That’s where slumber will tempt, in the pew
    with the lilies casting sweet spells of scent,
    the candles flickering in morning shadows
    as the sun’s fire rises over tall pines,
    joyful alleluias sung, by God, with grace.

  22. Kaitlyn says:

    Hush Now, Heart

    Hush now, heart, and
    Quiet your beating.
    You know we musn’t let him hear.

    Please, cheeks, forget this
    Bashful glowing, and hide your
    Redness lest he see!!

    Voice, don’t shake or
    Betray my feelings.
    Hide your nerves and maybe he won’t hear.

    If he sees, then I’m a goner!
    There goes
    Ship, and
    Deck, and
    Sail.
    So all I can do is try to HIDE it.

    All I can do…

    Hush now, heart, and
    Quietly your beating.
    You know we musn’t let him hear.

  23. MeenaRose says:

    Hidden Treasures
    By: Meena Rose

    A glimmer at the edge
    Of my vision,
    A shimmer of the real
    World.

    A scent of Jasmine tickles
    My nose,
    A hint of a far off
    Place.

    A lone harp plays within range of
    My ears,
    A tone of the heavenly
    Beyond.

    A welcome sweetness erupts within
    My mouth,
    A wholesome taste of
    Ambrosia.

    A gentle breath upon
    My neck,
    A subtle touch of
    Desire.

    Where am I, I wonder
    The glare of the sun
    Blinding me.

    Dumuzi, my consort,
    It is me, Innana.
    Your Goddess,
    Your lover.

    I am trapped
    Within this mortal.
    It is still me;
    I need you, Love, to strengthen me.

    Release me; free me;
    YOU AWAKENED ME!

    I blink and look around
    Startled that I am in
    Rush hour traffic.

    Covered in sweat,
    Heart pounding
    Chest heaving.

    What just happened
    To me?

  24. JRSimmang says:

    My shadow,
    dark outlines
    and limitless bound’ries,
    scathed away from my feet.
    Why can I never touch your face?
    Bleeding, blending,
    shifting to the wind,
    you dance poetic,
    wax fever,
    move with the movement of a child.
    Yet,
    when the dark settles,
    palpable and unsavory,
    your pantomime no longer makes me laugh.
    You forget your place
    and I slump into the night to await my shadow.
    I am perplexed. The night,
    the time of shadows,
    leaves all to blend.
    Where are you, my shadow?
    Do you play with others?
    Can you smile through your black?
    ‘Til tomorrow, my dear. ‘Til tomorrow.

  25. Margot Suydam says:

    Stolen

    When I was twelve
    I had a beagle
    black, brown

    white, she relished
    in city smells so much
    she didn’t complain

    when a stranger sly
    scooped her up, stuffed
    her under his arm

    like groceries.
    Silenced, startled.
    Not a yelp

    was heard down
    the block where
    my mother waited

    patient for her return.
    I’ve always wondered
    Was she then sold

    into a better family
    where something
    wasn’t always hidden

  26. Rosangela says:

    Hidden Growth

    You don’t see
    but it’s right there,
    hiding behind
    your filters
    and everywhere.

    You just think you know
    and you go with the flow;
    it’s easy, no thinking
    only following.

    You miss the point,
    it’s a hidden joint.
    You must find the link,
    and rethink.

  27. Lana Walker says:

    Car pulls up
    Woman steps out
    with phone held to ear

    “I’ll be home in 3 hours”

    She waits her turn
    flipping through
    Glamour Magazine

    “Tressa is ready for you”

    Mixing bowls, clips
    Tiny foil squares
    on her head

    Chatter, laughter
    Young and old
    Passing the allotted time

    With no sign of gray
    she returns home
    once again
    beautiful

  28. Nancy Posey says:

    In Hiding

    Like an lizard blending in against the bare branches
    or the walking stick invisible among the blades of grass,
    the fawn, wobbly new legs folded under a body
    the color of its  bed of of fall leaves,
    she wanted to walk through the crowds
    without  catching the eye of anyone
    who knew her name, acclimated
    to the local culture, moving along to the rhythm
    whether congos or tenor saxophophone.

    After seven years in a city of seven million strangers
    speaking a tongue decipherable, no words shared
    but Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, KFC,
     hers the only blue eyes, red curls, skin so pale blue veins 
    showed underneath, the time had come to find her way
     back to a place where she could hide in plain view,
    where neither her strangeness nor her beauty turned heads.

  29. Arike says:

    Shhhh

    No light to shed
    Shine no beams here
    Don’t light our grief
    Dark

    A breath withheld
    A sound unmade
    A mouth closed now
    Still

    A lash flickers
    Swish of a robe
    Feathers rustle
    Man

    No
    Fresh air comes in
    Bandages folded
    An empty shelf

    Who-
    Someone took him
    He’s been stolen
    Where could he be

    Gone
    Who would dare to
    It was sabbath
    It was Pesach

    Do not fear, but
    He’s no dead man
    Not anymore
    God

  30. lady maggie says:

       
    A Girl’s Monolith
       
          In our own moment free of yester’s views
          secret braids of color bind a tight
          threesome together bathed in blinding light
          in our own dances hand in hand with who’s
          lonesome enough embraced enough to lose
          love in life and life in love to write
          abandoned stillborn touches of goodnight
          dreams we’d scarred thick dark as one might choose
          open face into fierce firestorm to share
          reality intended opportune
          except will I go? can’t he? where?
          you’re seeing hearing cutting coming soon?
          over the bed made home to our affair -
          us three yet there beneath a rising moon.
       
       
       

  31. Brian Slusher says:

    NOW

    Open your eyes: you’ve survived
    the synaptic avalanche long
    enough–now steady, still the thrilling
    pulse of data. See each leaf
    of the climbing ivy wink as the sun
    massages your neck. Below
    the harried surface of the brook
    a mosaic of patient stones glitters.
    Hear each titter, twit, and caw
    embossing the April air, and there
    like treasure spilled from a forgotten
    cache, you’re back, to one,
    awake, to now.

  32. No Longer Afraid

    Years of hiding
    hiding from the bullies
    hiding from the teasers
    hiding from the demons
    hiding from myself
    ended
    wonderfully
    beautifully
    joyously
    when suddenly
    like a revelation
    I stood upright
    and proud
    no longer afraid

    Iain

  33. Dear Moosehead,
    Pal, I am currently hiding out from
    your mother and sister by working
    my tail off on the airport run.
    Plenty of tourists so the geld ist gut!
    Also looking forward to giving them Rays
    a hiding at home. Games up at 7
    pick ya up at 6 as I’m gonna be out that way.
    We may all need to hide soon. Had a note
    from Jimmy the Greek down in Atlanta
    crowing about making a visit… You know that
    never goes well. Ya think Canada is far enough?

    Yours skulking on the parkway,
    Ringo the Howler

  34. drwasy says:

    TUCKED AWAY

    Tucked away in the cedar-
    lined drawer of the cherry desk
    given to me by a friend
    long gone, a woman with
    gentle and strong words,
    are the words I wish
    no one else to find.

    There I secret my notebooks—
    the yellow spiral for daily words
    when story words fail;
    the black moleskine filled
    two-thirds with permanent
    grief inked while my father died;
    a paisley polyester with lock,
    no key, a youth spent
    discerning love
    from other distractions.

    On top, thin manila folders
    contain bills and letters
    received and other significant
    minutiae, and on top of these,
    a scattering of foil-covered
    chocolates and red-striped
    peppermints, stashed to satisfy
    any curiosity my daughter
    might have about the drawer
    in the desk where I work.

    While looking for the file
    of passwords that unlock
    accounts that unlock money,
    my hand bumps up against
    the familiar cold metal coiled
    around cardboard–a purple
    notebook small enough
    to tuck away in a child’s back pocket,
    rounded fourth grader words
    warning me to keep out.

    ***
    Peace, LindaS-W

  35. Tanjamaltija says:

    Writing on the Wall

    White darkness
    Black light
    Separating wrong from right.
    Sun-rays, star-dust;
    Axis of the universe.
    Do what you know.
    Vacuum void;
    Space-time continuum
    Parallax aura
    You must be a part
    Of
    Infinity, eternity.

  36. Irony

    In their hidden world
    on Barrow Island
    the ospreys look after each other,
    so it has been observed,
    and raise their young.
    The native island mouse
    and golden bandicoot,
    and our biggest lizard,
    the handsome perentie,
    go about their business
    evading introduced predators —
    now that those predators
    have been reduced.
    Graceful green turtle and dugong
    glide and turn in the clear water near shore.

    Oddly enough,
    when the oil extraction stops,
    all these fragile species and more
    may be more seriously threatened
    by eco-tourists. The conservation workers
    work while they can. And possibly pray.

  37. Jaywig says:

    Day 6 – hiding

    Autumn brings …

    Barely visible
    amongst the bold
    arms of oregano
    parsley appears
    from seed
    I did not know
    was there, all
    summer.

  38. De Jackson says:

    survival tactic

    no more
    wearing my heart
    on my sleeve,

    she says.

    that’s what pockets are for.

  39. Unfurling of the pages
    Zipping the needles
    Hooking the thread
    Spraying the paintbox
    Gluing the brokens
    Breaking the perfectly goods
    Flying with colours
    Tangling the cords
    Hiding the creative
    Creative out to play

  40. De Jackson says:

    secrets and salt
    (a shadorma)

    unwrap my
    skin, delve your fingers
    deep into
    my heart’s earth;
    scatter what you find, seeds blown
    out to waiting wind.

  41. Khara H. says:

    Picture perfect

    Where did you go—
    or where do you think
    you’re going.
    When questions
    pearl themselves,
    anymore I just tuck them
    away, dog-eared
    like photographs.

    In pictures of the two of us,
    like dreams, we walk
    between worlds—
    and I can press your hand
    back into mine, touch
    palm to palm.
    I can see you smile as I smile.

    And still I want to know—
    where did you go, this you
    who can keep me
    frozen in time
    even after you’ve gone.

  42. “Hide ‘n’ Seek”

    Daddy, I’m hiding under my bed. Come
    find me. So I count to 10,
    wander room to room, looking
    like I’m looking, making the game
    for her. Just before she loses
    interest, I peak under her bed.
    She dives into my waiting arms.

  43. lionmother says:

    Walt, this is probably the real you!! How much fun is it to post underneath this!!

    Hidden Inside of Me

    People see the calm and quiet
    demure and together woman
    who speaks in a low voice and
    sits calmly in Starbucks,
    vanilla skim latte in hand
    but they don’t know the
    fire burning inside or the
    anger waiting, peeking out
    sparked in private and only
    rarely, when it can no longer
    be tamed, flames out in public
    the fire voice strong and firm
    takes no prisoners retreats
    from no one
    demands to be heard at the
    slightest injustice
    yet it stays hidden within
    only appearing when safe
    in the confines of my home
    where the lion no longer
    need be caged.

  44. kenia_cris says:

    Jump

    He had been trying to tell me something
    I just fully understood when I
    found him on the carpet, dried up.

    In Gloucester, three years ago,
    a goldfish survived for thirteen hours
    after leaping out of his tank.

    He was discovered and brought back.

  45. Marcia Gaye says:

    Nice prompt, and a lot of things come to mind. But it being Good Friday these are what came out. So two poems today.

    Childish Things

    The baby closes his eyes
    and says, “Now You can’t see me.”
    The child runs to hide
    and says, “Now You can’t find me.”
    There will come a time
    to realize the time has come
    To put away childish things.

    No Question

    God is not hidden, We just
    don’t look for him where He is.
    Because then we’d have to make
    a decision.
    Yet to not
    look is the decision made.

  46. Dan Collins says:

    In Light of the Dutch Golden Age

    Inspiration must come down from God,
    from heavens above to heavens below.
    So much to unlearn, all knowledge is flawed.
    He never forgets to whom all is owed.

    From heavens above to heavens below,
    he observes and records peering through glass,
    never forgetting to whom all is owed.
    The night is funneled through small tubes of brass.

    He observes and records, peering through glass,
    making corrections to what was once thought.
    The night is funneled through small tubes of brass
    piercing the darkness of what he was taught.

    Making corrections to what was once thought,
    without fear of law he scribbles all night.
    Piercing the darkness of what he was taught,
    into dark corners he will shed some light.

    Without fear of law he scribbles all night,
    inspiration has come down from God.
    Into all corners he will shed this light,
    discovering more by which to be awed.

  47. Jane Shlensky says:

    Between the Lines

    Before each therapy session,
    she rehearsed what she would say
    until she did not choke in the telling,
    the words flowing smoothly, all
    the more compelling for the absence
    of emotion, moving over boulders
    of misery and pain that had storied
    her and brought her here to heal.

    Her therapist, enthralled,
    rarely stopped the narrative,
    asking few questions, always
    eager for the next installment,
    as if her life were a miniseries
    moving through his head, no
    commercials, while her steady voice
    narrated, only stopping for water
    or to regain control of herself.

    The story took a year,
    fifty chapters, fifty minutes each.
    Only then did he exhale, as if
    he’d held his breath for months,
    shake his balding head,
    wipe his eyes, and say,
    “So very sad. However do
    you manage to tell this without
    your heart breaking, like mine?”
    as if she did not feel it,
    had not lived it. “Do you cry?”
    but she was silent now, finished.

    The story stood on its own merits,
    win or lose, her tears, rehearsed
    away, were forever hidden in
    caesura, poised on the lashes
    of each ragged breath, tucked
    between the lines for someone
    with empathy to find and feel,
    the listener moved to tears
    simply because the teller
    refused to weep.
    .

  48. LOST AND FOUND TRAVOLTA

    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlostandfoundandlostandfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostand    ndandlostandfoundandlostandfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostand      dandlostandfo         dlostandfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostan          andlostand              ostandfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandf           dlostan                 standfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfou          ostand             ostandfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfound        stand              ostandfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfounda                                         undandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundan                              and         andlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlo                         tandfo        ndlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlosta                    tandf         andlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlosta                    tan          dandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlosta    found       ta       undandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlost                            foundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundandlo                            ndfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoundand                                dfoundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfounda         andfoundan            foundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfound        standfoundandl           oundandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfoun       lostandfoundandlos         undandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfou         lostandfoundandlos          ndandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostandfo          lostandfoundandlost            dandlostandfound
    lostandfoundandlostand             lostandfoundandlost             andlostandfound

  49. Hidden Treasures

    How many children have come to the mine
    Praying for a hidden miracle
    In the bejeweled water?
    They leave with only
    Grains of sand as mementoes
    under their fingernails.
    Still, they chat happily as if the experience
    is the most exciting activity in the world.

    Then, a couple finds a 50 carat emerald in the sluice.

    Fun is replaced by a renewed purpose -
    To be the next successful treasure hunter.
    Happy memories fade away, replaced by greed.
    Silly children. Lay not your treasures here on earth.
    Happy memories, you might take with you.

  50. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:

    When you will not talk
    What you keep from me is what
    You hide from yourself

  51. Marie Elena says:

    Uneasy Faith (a dodoitsu)

    Lord, I give you all my keys -
    Access to all of my dreams
    All the chambers of my heart
    (except for this one)

    Lamenting no time to read/comment today (or at least since early this morning). Write on, poets! Good night!

  52. seingraham says:

    Alone in the Old Town

    Lost in an old town at mid-day is like stumbling through a maze
    And I confess to wandering confused and lonely, in a daze
    Being out-of-doors at siesta proved to be a mistake to this I’ll swear
    And more than once that noon-time, I offered up a silent prayer

    In southern Italia the noon sun burns hotter than the fieriest blaze
    Landscapes, lanes, buildings – all blur together to create a cloudy haze
    But then I thought I saw — a way out! A tunnel – oh my, did I dare?
    It was dark and dank, unlit throughout with stale, unmoving, antique air

    Scarcely breathing, I ran through the murk with eyes down and averted gaze
    Until at last I was out and blinded by the Mediterranean sun’s bright rays
    I stumbled for some moments blinking in the white piazza’s glare
    Finding finally a stone bench to rest on, both my lonely self and my soul to bear.

    In time, my equilibrium restored I looked about and also found a well nearby within my gaze
    Refreshed, I began to explore the town’s piazza, magnifico, and worthy much of praise
    Ubiquitous mourning doves cooed softly from the walls nearby, clinging by the pair
    And now recovered and renewed, I at once delighted as the sun moved on, felt I had not a care …

    S.E.Ingraham©

  53. Sharon says:

    Hidden Stories

    Hidden hopes,
    Hidden dreams,
    Like the night
    In hidden streams.

    Thoughts abound
    Wild and free
    Hidden stories
    Burning deep in me.

    Out they come
    From some hidden well
    Those hidden tales
    Only I can tell.

  54. Katrin says:

    Deep in the oak savannah,
    at least thirty-three nests are hidden
    within the wise complexities
    of grace

    A thousand years of
    campfire murmurs
    lie buried with the acorn shells

    The screech of nocturnal death
    hangs camouflaged on some
    rough bark

    Transparent dreams of a night under that one
    over there (No Overnight Camping) with
    you
    always hover above the hill

    And fifty-seven poems are still to be
    found as the wind rattles the leaves
    in the white oak’s late winter stories

  55. LCaramanna says:

    In Full View

    The April full moon on the eastern horizon
    engaged the clouds in a childish game of peekaboo
    before rising in visual splendor
    to claim center stage in the night sky.
    Venus winked at Saturn,
    a flirtatious invitation to mingle in the moonlight.
    Earthly stargazers, up-turned faces drenched in dazzling white brilliance,
    beneath the magnificent moon,
    could not conceal their awe.

  56. gtabasso says:

    I have gone from rebel to recluse
    in the last few years: too big,
    too busy, earning money,
    not writing, too lazy, no honey.

    When I was well, I rode a horse
    and bellydanced. Now, movies
    and friends, sleep and bed.
    Maybe it is time for a rest
    after living fast and hard,
    doing it all before 40,
    almost dying and fighting back.

    Now, I see the sun and moon,
    watch the flowerbed bloom,
    kiss the cats and let that be all
    I need. Not greedy or needy
    or trying to run the world.
    A retreat, flannel sheets,
    some peace.

  57. Secrets in Smiles

    You look at me and see a smile,
    But you miss the pain in my eyes.
    If you’d see just one thought,
    You’d realize what I’m trying to hide.

    The judgement is unnerving.
    The sadness locked inside.
    Too many tears I’ve fought back
    All while trying to hide.

    I live each day running
    From the person locked so deep.
    The fear, the heartache, the failure,
    These secrets so hard to keep.

    But while I say this to you,
    There is no reason for sorrow.
    For every day I’m living
    Like there will be no tomorrow.

  58. Cracker Jack Love is Not Real

    Try to explain that to someone
    Whose arm is already in the box
    Up to their sticky elbow

    Yank out the hand too fast
    And you might scrape it
    On jagged sweetness

    Let the digging hand go on
    Until it clenches on its own
    Around the shiny thing

    Better to let her watch
    The goldish ring turn
    Her last finger green

  59. Harbor

    Those days when you walked meekly with
    a tawny pony tail and a baseball hat,
    kicking dirt and concealing your pain
    in outbursts and hide and seek games
    where you never wished to be found,
    seem a distant reality now that you
    have surfaced across a screen, across
    miles and miles of terrain that
    keep our fingers from touching, that
    keep me from lifting you off your feet
    in a long embrace. The years between us
    are worn into our faces, our hair both
    blonde now, our affection rekindled
    through the most unlikely scenarios.
    Your shroud has been tossed aside as
    you announce your brazen nomadic ways
    to the world, make literal red marker
    lines across the country and stick
    temporary pins in cities, smuggle your
    unrelenting warmth to the coldest regions
    while I wait here for you to uncloak
    me from the fog of your absence.

  60. Nickie says:

    I am tired, its late and this is the best I can do tonight (its a Tanka):

    Hungry green lizard
    walks past a motionless twig
    craving, seeking prey.
    It was natural selection
    That let the twig fly away

  61. deedeekm says:

    The Easter Eggs Should Have Stayed Hidden

    Took a ramble through the brambles hoping to evade the wall,
    Brightly colored, dyed and smothered, decorated all.
    I told my friends, “Escape! Escape!” and took off at a run!
    I thought that all had been hard-boiled but someone just in fun,
    Left one uncooked and as he hooked a corner round a stone,
    He tumbled o’er and hit the floor and now he’s come undone!.
    Old Humpty yes, I knew him well, a good egg through and through!
    His innards dumped, he took a fall, our sense of horror grew!
    No basket will contain our friend, no child will squeal with pride,
    For deviled be the rest of us, he might as well be fried!

  62. pmwanken says:

    HIDDEN IN POOLS OF BLUE

    deep within
    pools so blue, hidden
    currents; tide’s
    ebb and flow;
    carrying within it, the
    power to renew

    2012-04-06
    P. Wanken

  63. hurtin-heart says:

    Sometimes our feelings get in the way of reality.
    And we want what we know we can’t have!
    Sometimes things are not always as easy as they seem,
    And choices can cause great consequences.
    Sometimes we get tangeled in a web
    And it takes time to unweive.
    Sometimes when our hearts have been broken
    We wear it on our sleeves.
    And sometimes when love is lost
    Convincing of that fact can be hard to achieve.
    Sometimes our thoughts take us places
    And we tell ourselves,we’re a fool to believe.
    So we convince ourselves is all just a dream!
    And keep silent as we hold in the pain…….
    Samantha tinney

  64. ellanytdavve says:

    When I Was Four

    She scolded me to silence,
    peeking between the steps
    under the porch of her old,
    ramshackle civil war house.
    Her brother counted to ten
    as I mastered my twitchy limbs
    and choked giggles.
    There were seven of them,
    four boys and three girls.
    A wild gaggle of siblings.

    One day I got muddy
    tromping through their pasture
    in ardent play after a spring rain.
    My mud-crusted clothes were tossed
    into the ever laboring washer and
    replaced with
    boy shorts
    and a t-shirt.

    My cheeks were scarlet,
    my eyes averted,
    my play was done.
    I sat under the steps,
    waiting on my mother,
    fidgety to be out of
    those horrid
    boy clothes.

  65. Sheryl says:

    One day I would love to revise the last line, but it will take much longer than I have right now. That might even lead to a new title, but this will have to do for now.

    You Cannot Peek

    Peek-a-boo,
    Peek-a-boo.
    I know how to
    hide from you.

    I simply stand
    right in this place,
    and then I cover
    up my face.

    Peek-a-boo,
    Peek-a-boo,
    I know how to
    hide from you.

    I hide from you
    by what I speak.
    Into my mind
    you cannot peek.

    Sheryl Kay Oder

    .

    • Sheryl says:

      I think I’ve got it!

      I’m Hiding

      Peek-a-boo,
      Peek-a-boo.
      I know how to
      hide from you.

      I simply stand
      right in this place,
      and then I cover
      up my face.

      Peek-a-boo,
      Peek-a-boo,
      I know how to
      hide from you.

      My sweet words
      obscure my frown;
      You’ll have my meaning
      Up-side down.

      Sheryl Kay Oder

  66. Arrvada says:

    Hidden Beneath Me
    By
    Arrvada

    There is another person beneath me
    A person only I can see
    When I look into the mirror
    I see her staring out
    But I know my eyes
    Are the only one who can see her
    She hides inside of me
    Waiting for the moment
    When it is safe to be free
    She is scared to be rejected
    Scared to be hurt
    So she stays inside where it is safe
    Never knowing what its like
    To walk inside my skin
    She stays safe within
    And slowly she will die
    Fade away until even i
    Won’t see her looking out at me

  67. Dare says:

    My Someone

    I look for You
    Beyond World-ways
    And find my
    Soul-Mate
    There

  68. Andrea B says:

    Charming!!! “her boundaries are firmer than my own.” — love that!

  69. carolecole66 says:

    How to Live With a Dog

    Emma, the secretive one, won’t tell me
    where she’s been, though it’s just
    under the house sniffing for a rogue raccoon
    or up front watching through the fence
    for the mail carrier. She was always like this,
    even as a pup. She’d cut her eyes at me,
    give that secret smile and head off to the back
    down by the creek, ignore my calls until she felt like
    coming in. Her hidden life is hers, her boundaries
    firmer than my own. This is mine;
    this part we share. Her rules.
    I’ve learned to live with that.

  70. Charles Cote says:

    READY OR NOT

    My empathy is a weapon
    hidden in the spores
    of the attic, firebox
    smoke and ashes
    coughing from the hearth
    to the mortar crown.
    My love is a blister limping
    home to this morning’s
    coffee dark as a coffin.

  71. Monik says:

    Come out, come out wherever you are. Don’t just stand there behind the bar. Wishing people would accept who you are, whishing they’d stop pushing you too far. Come out, come out and free your desire don’t live your life as a filthy liar.

  72. deringer1 says:

    This is my first try at posting a poem and I think I put it in the wrong place. So I’ll try again here.

    HIDING

    Shall I introduce myself?
    just an average person
    trying always to smile and be pleasant.

    friends? oh, sure, lots of them,
    always there when I need them
    always ready for the fun times.

    how am I? oh, just fine today
    thanks for asking.
    I am so blessed and doing great !

    Yes, my family is well,
    no, no problems at all

    how does my mask look?

  73. omavi says:

    “Seeking Safe Haven from Failure”

    Afraid
    Running
    Hiding
    Fear so chilling
    Bones passed point of shattering
    Skin so taunt
    As sweat profusely falling
    Ducking behind phantoms
    Plain sight becomes compelling cover
    From darkness quickly consuming
    Goosebumps a constant friend
    Heart skipping multiple beats
    Soul quaking
    Teeth chattering
    Mind no longer wants to conceive what is coming
    No longer does the body want to linger
    Epic failure silently stalking
    Beast with bloody claws
    Nightmare from which there is no abating
    Trying to shelter from the storm
    Whilst the umbrella is slowly leaking
    Success so close
    So far
    Greatness has a way of fading
    Shelf life only the blink of an eye
    Fearing confidence betrayed not abetted
    Wary of looking back
    Failure the predator always waiting
    Cloaked in brittle amour of strength
    Now even that is fading

  74. Yolee says:

    Everything Operates on a Curve

    And you, my Joshua tree, lit the camber
    of hidden worlds. In 1995 I was heavy
    with you in body and spirit. You also gave
    birth to the part of me God concealed
    until such a time. As with your sisters,
    there were roots in the underpinning
    of motherliness that needed your pulse,
    comeliness, and outstretched arms.

  75. “In the end”

    If
    there are
    but eleven in a
    glass sea of beliefs–
    dragons holding hands
    with Lewis’s Jeweled Unicorn
    in The Last Battle, a Roman Diana
    bathing with Apollo and the beast, lotus
    and fire, slayings and false tongues—if there are but nine
    fearing the pillar of salt, unwilling to whisk dreams and gods
    and paradises into ONE and only ONE . .
    if there are but seven drifting like
    cinnamon in yeast manna,
    fading two by two into
    despair, will you
    help us find
    each other
    in the
    end?

  76. Bruce Niedt says:

    Today’s other prompt from NaPoWriMo: Write a poem about an animal, perhaps in the style of one of Marianne Moore’s animal poems. I used her poem “The Fish” as a model for this poem about one of nature’s masters of camouflage, the trap door spider. (I hope this formats properly. If not, visit my blog at bniedt.blogspot.com.)

    Trap Door Spider

    hide
    deep inside
    a long tunnel that you dug
    and lined with silk, a deadly rug
    the better for slipping up and down to

    catch
    from your hatch
    camouflaged door, no welcome mat
    D-shaped, silk-hinged, false floor that
    dooms the unsuspecting creature

    who
    crawled or flew
    oblivious to your pinching maw
    to be cracked open by your jaw
    some leftovers mixed with spit

    food
    for your brood
    of spiderlings, crawling blind
    while you, one of a single mind
    lie in wait for the next meal to

    snap
    in your trap,
    eight-legged deadly jack-in-the-box
    a brutal denizen who mocks
    our placid life, our naïve trust

    to
    walk through
    our surroundings and not suspect
    there’s any reason to protect
    ourselves from such a hungry world.

  77. Jackie Casey says:

    CORRIE

    Corrie,
    a hidden Hope
    sequestered for the World
    that little shop in Haarlem called
    tenBoom.

  78. PowerUnit says:

    I lay under your bed
    ready to creep
    You lie your head down
    trying to sleep

    I hear your thoughts churn
    a harvest to reap
    I feel your heart burn
    no counting of sheep

    When you nod off
    your slumber so deep
    I’ll laugh and I’ll scoff
    your soul I will keep

  79. LCaramanna says:

    Sunshine Smiles Hide

    Repetitious rhythm of raindrops’ dirge,
    drip dropping into puddles on the driveway,
    shades the scintillating samba of a stunning springtime sun.
    Cloaked in clouds of silver gray, sky blue concealed,
    sunshine smiles hide
    until the rain cries its last teardrop,
    and the puddles on the driveway
    unveil dazzling diamond sparkle
    splendid for splashing.

  80. PSC in CT says:

    Another busy — and therefore, haiku — day. ;-)

    You otter believe!
    Both of us startled –
    hidden (not hiding) from each.

    [NOTE: I'm pretty sure that it was an otter that I surprised this morning as I was picking up at the reservoir. Startled by our sudden face-to-face, he squeaked, dashed past me and dove into the water to swim away, and I was too surprised -- and too slow -- to catch a picture of him.]

  81. MiskMask says:

    HIDING FROM DESIRE

    This wicker wall was built by swallows
    but it kept you out and kept me in.
    It kept my blood from running thin
    when your fever was a hurricane
    and my innocence a heralder’s beacon.
    Inescapable you,
    we two,
    hot as Sahara sand
    under the hoofs on a carrousel,
    me in my hidey-hole, quiet as clover,
    and you chasing shadows down a hill.
    I never shouted Ready or Not,
    but still you always find me.
    I’m hiding from desire.

  82. Andrea B says:

    Delete Key

    If I could recover words
    hidden by the delete key
    I would find raw truths—
    maybe ugly, but honest

    expressions of anger
    insecurity, flippancy,
    a first gut reaction draft
    of what you really
    wanted to tell me

    but your rewrites
    are like the lines hidden
    by make-up,
    lines honestly earned
    by the bathing rays of the sun
    and the pull of the earth,
    but hidden by man-
    made shame and his desire
    to soften and smooth
    all things over

    As this plowing key
    grates away at our integrity
    and flattens our outspokenness,
    we forget we are not revisions
    of ourselves, but we are
    the seed that sprouts anew
    in its season true to
    the bathing rays of the sun
    and the sure pull of the earth

  83. Seeds

    Today
    I am going to bury something priceless

    in that bare corner of the yard:
    claw my nails through the littered dust
    until I have made a shallow bowl
    where I will drop it

    and cover it again,
    where I will tilt my head to each side,
    convincing two tears to fall:

    they will
    catch round shavings of light,
    and that will be water enough.

    You will not find it:
    but when it comes up again

    (and it could be hollow like a promise
    or spangled with gold like a lie;
    maybe it will even wave arms and legs)

    we will be pleasantly surprised,
    having forgotten its name and shape.

    I used to think
    we conceal things for their protection,
    but now I know we only do it
    for power: I cannot tell you what it is
    that I have buried,

    only that I did, that I marked the earth,
    screwed the memory of digging into place
    and stood up again with just this,
    just one more piece of my puzzle
    that you can’t have.

  84. Sara McNulty says:

    April 6, 2012 – Day 6
    Write a Hiding poem

    How I Lived

    As a young woman
    of low self-esteem,
    I focused on what I felt
    were my only attributes–
    blue eyes accented
    with lines and shadows,
    thick blonde hair grown
    past my waist, a modern
    day Rapunzel. Lacking
    the daring to pursue
    dreams as a whole person,
    I pursued sex.

    Could I lure
    guys I fancied,
    into wanting me?
    Sex became my mettle;
    anticipation, heat,
    and power–my worth.
    I hid behind long hair
    fanned out on pillows,
    my eyes penetrating theirs.
    I hid out in tacky motels,
    curtains drawn,
    and in cars parked
    in secluded spots.

    One day I picked up a pen.
    One day I created a story.
    One day I was told talent lurked.
    One day I joined a writing group.
    One day I signed up for drawing lessons.
    One day I felt poetry’s pull.
    On the last day I rested,

    secure in the knowledge
    that I could expose my inside,
    which held so much more
    than my outside could hope to match.

  85. Miss R. says:

    Small Talk

    Is there any point in saying it
    When you’ll just stare at me blankly
    (At least you deign to give me a pause),
    Then continue on about your life
    And how important
    Everything happening to you is?

    So instead I smile and nod
    Smile and nod
    Like a pleasant maniac of a puppet,
    All the while dragging you through
    The sharp words I really want to say
    Within the safety of my mind.

    If you knew, though,
    I would tell you not to worry,
    And even now I secretly apologize.
    I will be the next to be raked
    Over the daggers of my criticism,
    And I should have been the first.

  86. Wind Against Her Back

    Her fingers curl like lashes
    pulling the hooded fabric
    as her eyes shutter
    now too tired
    to even unravel.

    She hides her fear
    behind a cloak of anger
    where layers of wool
    warp and weft with tears.

    A darkened sigh
    slips out a button hole
    and floats upward
    to shroud the moths
    that must find the light
    or die.

  87. April showers, like
    dinner on a first date, feed
    flowers sprung in June.

  88. PassionateQuill says:

    white dog in charred oak
    rolled in ricks where
    angels, air, and time 
    take their share
    limestone, corn, malt and rye
    emerge from barreled chambers
    smoked, amber miracle 

  89. Pris says:

    Bench by the Sea

    Your hair’s still curly but gray now.
    Same smile you wooed me with,
    broke me with.

    You sit only two benches
    down from my own favorite
    bench by the sea.

    I cower, pull my visor
    lower, shrink into
    that same place you
    stopped seeing me back then.

    I hope the Houdini trick
    will work, hide me,
    keep me safe.

    The sea is receding.
    Gulls cut in lower.
    The sun worshipers gather
    smart phones and ipads
    into their bags.

    When I dare look again
    I see an old man bent
    with bread crusts
    in his hand.

    You’re pulling your Houdini
    trick, too.

  90. COMPASS

    How could I find you without a map
    of the labyrinth of possibles,
    spiral helix with its infinite permutations –

    you, sable puppy in a world of black
    and tans; focus of your amber
    eyes distracted by worlds of sidewalk,

    off-ramps, phone numbers? How
    could I hear you for the
    barking, the TV noise and sirens?

    How would I find the good dog
    concealed inside the impossible puppy
    traded from hand to hand?

    How could I call your name
    when no one knew you
    well enough to name you? Loki

    maker of mischief – where were you
    hiding? Or, were you looking
    for me in the maze, to find me?

  91. RobHalpin says:

    Solace in the Dark

    When I can look no longer in your eyes,
    I’ll find solace in the dark
    where I’ll hide away from all my lies.
    When I can look no longer in your eyes,
    when mirrored in them is what you despise,
    I’ll hide away, forever cold and stark.
    When I can look no longer in your eyes,
    I’ll find solace in the dark.

  92. Dividing Up Stuff

    It was easy
    to cheat on her
    because
    she trusted me.

    I hid in plain sight
    because when
    someone loves you
    they trust you.

    She wasn’t
    looking for my sin,
    my flaw,
    and she didn’t find it.

    When I eventually
    told her
    I was leaving,
    I made the mistake of
    leaving her alone
    with my private
    things.

    She went through
    all my private files
    and found all
    the unsent poems,
    hotel room receipts,
    stray love notes,
    and other convicting detritus
    and stacked them
    on the filing cabinet
    for me to find
    upon my return.

    This was her proof
    of my flagrant disrespect
    and lazy contempt.

    Still,
    I couldn’t help
    but feel betrayed
    that my secret persona
    was outed,
    my performance
    as dutiful partner
    spoiled,
    my private world
    violated.

    When trust ends
    all that’s left
    is dividing up stuff
    and walking away.

  93. maggzee says:

    Pas de Diablo

    Ben goes up to the mountaintop
    And basks in all the glory
    Then he slips upon a rock
    And that’s Ben’s story

    Bess sits at a table of
    Unforbidden fruit
    Until she bites into
    The bitterest of root

    Bess and Ben have done their all
    In their own circumstances
    But what we mean, and what wills out
    Is where the devil dances.

  94. Yolee says:

    Everything Operates on a Curve

    And you, my Joshua tree, lit the camber
    of hidden worlds. In 1995 I was heavy
    with you in body and spirit. You also gave
    birth to the part of me God concealed
    until such a time. As with your sisters,
    there were roots in the underpinning
    of motherliness that needed your pulse,
    comeliness, and outstretched arms.

  95. RIGHT UNDER MY NOSE

    This journey of life is rife with many surprises,
    you’d think you’d open your eyes and discover,
    that this game that’s played in truths and lies is
    tailor-made for friends and for lovers.

    You’d think you’d open your eyes and discover
    the one who fulfills your heart and dreams
    tailor-made for friends and for lovers
    for whom their endless love light beams.

    The one who fulfills your heart and dreams
    in search to find their soul’s content
    for whom their endless love light beams
    in expressions that their words present.

    In search to find their soul’s content
    the trek of love is so transpired
    in expressions that their words present
    to stoke their ember into fire.

    The treks of love is so transpired,
    we’ll take the thorns to embrace the rose
    and stoke our ember into fire
    that burns unbridled right under my nose.

    We’ll take the thorns to embrace the rose
    as this game that’s played in truths and lies is
    left to burn. Unbridled right under my nose,
    this journey of life is rife with many surprises,

  96. traci says:

    WAKING
    Warm covers around
    Head deep beneath the warmth
    Sound slices silence
    Moving out from under now
    Cold! Hide now under again

  97. Sally Jadlow says:

    Eternal Truth

    Many times people hide
    and side-step,
    not telling the truth
    so as not to offend anyone.

    When in reality,
    if the truth were told
    in love,
    eternal outcomes
    might be different.

  98. Beth Rodgers says:

    PLAINLY PRESENT

    From the depths of imagination
    Writers transform words
    Into vivid pictures
    Images that guide
    And signify.

    The words are there
    The pieces of the puzzle present
    Yet blockage often occurs
    Forcing our pens, pencils
    Pads of paper
    Keyboards
    Into impenetrable slumber.

    Then
    When one least expects it
    It all ceases to be hapless
    And as surely as the time has passed
    We begin writing once again.

  99. ely the eel says:

    Nothing Covert About It

    Happiness doesn’t hide
    so much as it waits,
    at the corner of bliss and peace,
    just down the street from connectedness.
    Anyone can find it,
    with just a touch of boldness,
    a dash of audacity.
    No maps required,
    but it is usually found
    in the same neighborhood as kindness.
    Never hidden,
    but sometimes confused
    with mirth and merriment,
    or outright laughter,
    yet true happiness can not be mistaken
    for anything else,
    not even when it is tucked inside
    surprise and delight,
    maybe even dismay.
    It might seem elusive at times,
    when we forget who we are,
    when we look for it directly rather
    than the byproduct it is,
    like from the wagging tale on a puppy,
    a smile from young Sophie,
    a kind word from a friend or fan.
    Happiness doesn’t hide.
    It’s waiting for us all.
    Hop on down and have some.

  100. Almost time to go to bed now here :-) A very nice propmt. I had to do some serious thinking. As usual, the result of that operation is only so-so. Yet, here we are to poem on and on.
    ***
    Conceal those tears
    And make me believe
    There is nothing but joy.

    And make me believe
    We are overly happy
    To be here and now.

    There is nothing but joy –
    “As is” clause
    fully operational

    In hiding.
    ***

  101. Domino says:

    Hidden Treasures

    How old was I when I discovered
    the wonder hidden
    between the covers
    and on the
    (boring-looking-
    without-pictures)
    pages?

    That plain green cover
    looked so dull,
    but when the teacher
    read to us
    from Charlotte’s Web
    and when Wilbur
    and Fern
    and rotten Templeton
    came to life
    I wondered if I
    could obtain this magic
    somehow
    for myself.

    And then, the world
    opened up
    like a Faberge
    egg.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  102. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    I AM HIDING

    Come find me,
    I am lost,
    Call my name,
    I am scared,
    Why won’t you come?
    I am lonely,
    Sit with me,
    I have wandered too far,
    Bring me back,
    Do you know?
    I am love,
    Come hold me,
    I am sensitive,
    Don’t scold me,
    I am missing!
    Do you know . . .

    I am you!

  103. amelia louise says:

    I look in the mirror
    and what do I see?
    Someone who’s there
    that isn’t me.
    Wrinkles and spots
    and sags galore.
    Why have I never
    seen this before?
    Something must have
    happened in sleep.
    I sure hope my beauty
    isn’t only skin deep!

  104. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    WHAT PART

    What part of hidden?
    Do I not see?
    What part of life?
    Have I not yet lived?
    What part of understanding?
    Do I not have?
    What is missing?
    If I cannot see it,
    Or feel it,
    Really ever knowing,
    It isn’t even there?

    Maybe it is present,
    In some form,
    Always,
    Right in front of any set,
    Of truly open eyes,

    Just waiting in silence,
    To not be hidden . . .

    Anymore!

  105. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    IT WAS THERE

    Circling your life for years,
    Seeing what was powerful,
    And strong,
    Of course, attractive,
    I could feel it,
    Drawn closer and closer to you,
    Searching even deeper,
    Going into a depth of conversations,
    Probing questions,
    About you,
    Your fascinations with life,
    Your quests for understanding,
    Deepest desires,
    Not shared with anyone else.
    Finally, you opened up,
    To a hidden depth,
    That previously had only offered a small,
    Hint of existence,
    Whispers of an undiscovered place,
    Almost unknown to fresh air,
    And a recognizable life lived,
    Not ever exposed to what even you thought,
    Was hiding behind the mask of self assurance,
    In your place in the world!
    Unseen from any vast set of eyes,
    Only felt and highly suspected.

    Finally feeling it open in you,
    Allowing in air,
    Like a newborn gulping in its first breath,
    It naturally spread,
    Like expanded wings in me!
    Creating a living love within us, around us,
    And through us!

    No amount of gold,
    Could compare,
    To the wealth we had uncovered!
    A true, fluid and loving heart,
    Willing to reveal itself,
    And then to lay bare,
    Expressing fully and not,
    Turning away . . .

    Only to be hidden once more.

  106. Golden Rule says:

    I was inspired to write this in remembrance of my visit to the Anne Frank museum in Amsterdam. I took a visit there last summer when I went on a mission trip to Belgium where I also had the privilege of competing in track and field. Here it is.

    Walking in her footsteps (The hiding place)

    As we approached the house
    I did not know what to expect
    never would I have imagined that I’d be walking in her footsteps
    never to see the light of day
    never to breathe a breath of fresh air
    either I can make the most of this or choose to live in despair
    oh how I long to play as the world play
    but instead I choose to be a slave in this hiding place
    I walked the same halls and climbed the same steps
    my hiding place is in Christ in which some choose to reject.

  107. DandPInc says:

    I see your actions:
    The rains hold off until AFTER I’m indoors.
    Three accidents have left scars but left no real damage,
    while I narrowly escaped more serious errors in judgment;
    The bumpy roads in the marriage are now smooth,
    hand-in-hand, we follow in your footsteps.
    Why can’t I see you two, too?

  108. DanielAri says:

    IS AIGA A WORD?

    and their calls continued fainter when the light
    inside went completely. Alice has her history of
    competitive play. The youngest sibling by eight
    years, she was home while the rest were at school,
    in her dad’s hair while he worked in the tool shop
    and in her mother’s while she cooked and canned.
    Her mom called a game of hide and seek, counted
    loud to a hundred by fives and forget about her
    five-year old, figuring Alice had found something
    more fun to do after ten minutes. But fifteen ‘til
    dinnertime, one child did not answer the order
    to wash up for table. This was before abductions
    infested front pages, but it was no less a panic.
    They ran calling through the house and all around
    it. Her oldest brother, who could drive now, took
    the car. They made phone calls and the police came.
    Inside one of the empty rain barrels, under the lid
    she had pulled over herself, Alice discovered she
    could laugh and weep at the same time, and both
    while completely silent. She was cold, cramped,
    terrified and unassailably, gold-medal victorious,
    which is why I hesitate whenever I notice she’s
    made a pot of tea and taken out the Scrabble board.

    FangO

  109. barbara_y says:

    To the Public Poem

    And this is how you thank me.
    As if I were proud to claim you,
    I lashed you to a telephone pole,
    with gold-plated wire and waxed cording.

    When I turned from walking away,
    you were already trying
    the length of your tether;
    and at some point that night
    or during the day while I was working,
    you must have flagged someone’s help
    or struggled in the solid water storm
    and freed yourself
    from my well-chosen publication.

    Now, you are in hiding.  And I am forced to search 
    for my own words.

    in the rain gutter debris with tangerine peel and petals off wisteria
    under paper bags where roly-poly bugs ball
    in rabbit dents within the lawn alfalfa
    among the stems of clumping bushes azalea forsythia quince
    I get down on my knees and look
    under parked cars and down into stagnating drains
    I drag the ladder out and climb to poke around the nests of messy birds,
    the ones preferring bulk to craftsmanship
    I move garbage cans around
    peer cautiously into yards with slavering dogs and loud small yippy dogs

    but you have hidden yourself well

  110. claudsy says:

    Number 3 Poem

    Twilight Idea

    It wafts, this thought
    That titillates
    The mind; one toe
    In the present,
    The rest only
    A dim specter,
    Tantalizing
    From future’s edge;
    Potential use
    Nagging with fog,
    Not allowing
    The reader’s eye
    To see the words,
    Or ear listen
    To letters’ sounds.

    • Andrea B says:

      I really enjoyed all three of yours! Especially this one and the lines “one toe in the present” and “Or ear listen to letters’ sounds”. I also loved “On the scent of forgotten nightly films.” from A Mask for Inspiration. Happy Easter!

  111. claudsy says:

    Number 2 Poem

    A Mask for Inspiration

    What comes between sleep and dream,
    When wakefulness rises
    To disrupt almost memory
    Of visions crucial to knowing?

    What are these veils that hide from us
    Those precious portents that clamor
    For our attention upon waking?
    Flashes of clarity, fresh and new,

    Fog over as mist clouds windowpanes.
    Our minds surge forward, searching,
    Vainly scouring wispy threads of dream
    On the scent of forgotten nightly films.

    Would that the mind lowered curtains
    As any decent stage crew does before
    Shouts of Encore! Bravo! ring forth.

  112. claudsy says:

    Finally got here, long before noon, and what do I find par usual–200+ comments. I’ll never get here much earlier. I’ll always be so far behind that I’m just a hair in front of tomorrow. Doing my best here, though, so can’t complain about having little time to leave my own comments. Have a great weekend all. Happy Easter!

    Hiding From Ourselves

    These things we call feelings with their soaring, diving passes,
    Could, if they but would, teach us much of ourselves.
    Yet these emotions cause such fearful contemplation that
    We cringe within prison walls of personal making,
    Daring never to pay heed to those lessons which could free us,
    And allow a deeper understanding of ourselves,
    Or this rapidly expanding and ever-more complex world.

  113. Nancy Posey says:

    In Hiding

    The youngest played hide and seek 
    without telling the rest
    the game had begun,
    disappearing suddenly, 
    staying gone  without a whisper, 
    waiting to see if anyone 
    even noticed she was gone.

    • Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      Love this, Nancy! Such fun play and yet can end up kind of sad when no one notices someone is missing. I enjoyed how you portrayed this! :)

  114. Marjory MT says:

    YOUR VOICE is HIDDEN, but YOU are NOT.

    Your voice is hidden, but you are not.
    It is not your voice, it is
    your face, your body, your hands
    that tell me who you are.

    As a profusion of shades of
    weather define our world,
    So the numerous shades
    of you define who you are.

    Your voice is hidden,
    but I see your smile,
    I feel your touch,
    I smell you unique fragrance.

    You voiced “hello” is hidden,
    but your body reveals
    how glad (or not)
    you are that we have met.
    Your laughter is hidden,
    but not your joy.

    The sound of the storm is hidden,
    but I feel its character,
    I see the trees in their
    ballerina dance before the wind.
    I see the upturned bowl of sky
    after the storm and the
    fleeting glimpse of
    a rainbows tail.

    Your voice is hidden,
    But you are not.

  115. Undercover

    Under the covers
    On a cold rainy day
    Or any day
    Shrug the world aside
    Keeping piece of mind
    While my soul is at play

    Curled warm
    Under my comforter
    Coiled, cozy
    Where all is at ease
    Where nothing can oppose me
    Life on pause, responsibility
    On freeze

    Undercover at last
    Under simmering
    Cinnamon satin sheets
    Doing my skin good pleasure
    Like bon bons, truffles, treats

    Now my only dilemma
    And now my only feat
    Is selection of the
    Next book to read

    The Power of Six?
    Or the Hunger Games?
    Sighhh…

  116. Michelle Hed says:

    Boys and Girls Play Hide and Seek (A Palindrome)

    Hiding, watching you
    girls giggling,
    running around,
    nothing found, still
    seeking
    still found nothing around
    running, giggling girls –
    you watching,
    hiding.

  117. De Jackson says:

    Camouflage

    Please don’t find me
    here under these pepper fronds,
    coffeed lips and keyed fingertips
    hungry for morning. I have pulled
    down gentle cloud and wrapped my
    -self in tangled tangoed breeze be
    -neath these whispering trees for a
    reason, etched cobblestone, brick into
    my skin, stretched umbered limbs
    long and shed my salt, free to breath
                            in syllable and song.

  118. Domino says:

    Locked Down

    Deep in my heart
    I have a few
    left-over feelings that
    I probably should not
    have
    for you.

    And I find,
    when I open my heart
    just to take a peek,
    those feelings
    are more
    than I imagined
    they should be
    at this point in time
    and it’s worrying.

    And so I push them
    back in, shoving,
    elbowing sort of rudely,
    to be honest,
    and seal the lid again.
    Turn the key.

    I wonder how long it will be
    before it will be safe
    to look
    again.

  119. Domino says:

    Hiding Eggs in the Desert

    The radio, this
    morning alerted
    the Easter Bunny
    to be cautious when
    hiding eggs out of
    doors on Saturday
    night. It seems many
    good egg-hiding spots
    are also super-
    good hiding places
    for Rattlesnakes and
    Scorpions and Black
    Widow Spiders. Ouch.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  120. cam45237 says:

    Bedestemor’s Attic

    Pull down unextended, secret stairs,
    Ease up each worn green step,
    The settling of bones, the flattened music of the guiding chains
    The scurry of the mice, the squirrels, the pulsing beat of birds.

    There’s a strike of sunlight that makes the brown dust dance.

    Bureau drawers drowse undefended,
    Papers curling, lace, odd bits of tin
    And linen.
    Collapsing cardboard spills its masks of cats and kings between the beams,

    Steamer trunks, salt-stained, immense, unguarded,
    Locks rusted hang estranged from thick iron
    Loops, their travels tangled
    In charms and trinkets, ornaments and pink silk threads,
    The woolen blues.

    Stands of pine
    Shelves, warped, with nails twisted
    In the wood hold books
    And yellow bordered magazines,
    Covers stained by sun and time and varmint
    Pages smell of soot and earth, old ink and lingering air,
    And the cessation of the hours.

  121. Wendy Stevens says:

    Cyber Sex

    Open the window to let out the heat,
    the air stagnant with desire.
    An open screen, an open heart,
    an open pair of pants.

    Well placed hands,
    carefully chosen words,
    crazy forbidden hunger,
    imagination creating excitement.

    With aching need,
    each person unfolds like a flower,
    drinking in the imagined touch,
    only thinking of the moment.

    When it’s over, the desire spent,
    does the guilt weigh as heavily
    as the aching limbs?
    The answer lies within them.

    Only the participants know,
    if they care to remember,
    the reasons for their guilt-
    their unknowing spouses in the next room.

  122. Michael Grove says:

    Beyond These Walls

    There are so few true answers.
    There are many, many calls.
    We can move ahead to higher ground
    out beyond these walls.

    There is humble adoration
    from a peaceful loving heart.
    There’s a true steadfast commitment
    to always do our part.

    Out beyond these walls we seek
    a brighter happy day.
    Together there is unity
    and we will find the way.

    If or when the curtain
    tears in two and falls,
    we won’t let it separate us
    out beyond these walls.

    By Michael Grove

  123. ceeess says:

    Well today I found a poem hidden in an online article about the writing of W.G. Sebald (and found yet another must-have book of poetry. Now I need to find a new lifetime to read them all!)

    The Hidden Metamorphosis of Time

    clotted with untranslated fragments and allusions
    the assemblage hectic. the codes and secrets of work.
    the point of opacity printed on hand-made lumpy paper.
    a compression somewhere behind Türkenfeld,
    a pond slowly melting seen from a passing train.
    the Blutbahn: Dachau, Kaufering and Landsberg.
    into history’s shadow a small circle, mourners of the disregarded.
    the inanimate ruins and comminuted landscapes reduced
    small by the forces of transparent dream, of debris.
    the private life unrecounted. things outlast us.
    they know about us, they carry experience inside them
    our history opened. everywhere a vigilance, an inventory,
    the various objects attentive always to the the sounds of feather
    lifting. the shimmering light.

    Carol A. Stephen
    April 6, 2012

    Poem found in W. G. Sebald’s Poetry of the Disregarded
    Posted by Teju Cole at http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/04/

  124. cindishipley says:

    EASTER

    Normally on Easter you smell brown sugar and cloves merging into ham. Creamy scalloped potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower, florets reassembled into a single head, with cheese sauce.
    But this particular year,

    he was in Afghanistan.

    He sent me a picture.
    The sky was the kind you grow things with. Clear ocean blue, with a narrow horizontal strip of white.
    They were behind the building, the person taking the picture, (someone else’s’ son), and my son.
    My son in full battle gear;
    hard heavy metal,
    torso saving vest,
    black gloves. He
    knelt on his left
    leg with his loaded
    weapon ready, and
    his black combat boots tightly laced.

    My son was smiling
    for the camera.
    Say “goat”, say
    whatevas.
    “Ehumdeallah”

    The sun shone brightly on the young men. They were in a field of flowers so huge it got lost in the horizon. The sun lit the tops, but they were so thickly populous that the stems and roots were shaded darker green. The same green as their uniforms.

    It was a strange picture.
    My son’s face plastered
    with a smile that the sun
    carved shadows in.
    Black gloves, I thought?
    Why the machine guns?
    Someone hiding in the flowers?

    It was only when
    I scrolled down to the next picture,
    a lone flower close up,
    then the next picture,
    all the pretty petals were gone and
    it looked like rose
    bulbs when you have
    waited too long
    to behead them.
    A sliver down the side
    of the bulb showed some sap
    escaping.

    Then it came to me that my son had his friend take this picture for my Easter present, because of the beauty. But it also made me realize that

    beauty is so dangerous.

  125. Mike Bayles says:

    Behind the Clouds

    Behind the clouds
    the sun hides the day
    while in shadows
    the future lies
    in depths of my imagination.
    Cool, moist breezes
    brush past me
    while I question if and when
    the rain will come,
    the uncertainty
    when a change of weather
    lies in fortunes left untold.

  126. Imaginalchemy says:

    Dang it, you found me.

    You want to know why I’m hiding here?
    Okay, I’ll tell you.

    Because you’re driving me insane!
    From the moment you got up
    Until the moment you noticed I was missing

    Moan moan
    Whine Whine
    Blah Blah Blah

    So sorry your dreams aren’t coming true
    So sorry for the misery of the world too
    So sorry that you’re feeling trapped
    Just simmer down and take a nap

    I can’t take one more teeth-gnashing nag
    Can’t stand another head-vice crushing complaint
    So sorry, cat’s out of the bag
    I do not have the patience of a saint

    So yes, I’m hiding for a moment’s peace
    Before you render me a drool-dripping zombie.

    ….

    Uh, it’s kind of lonely in here.
    You wanna hang for a while with me?

  127. posmic says:

    Hide and Seek

    with a 3-year-old boy:
    Cover him in pillows
    on the couch (at his
    request). Count. Look
    in the dress-up bin,
    behind the chair. Go to
    the laughing pillow nest.
    Rejoice in finding,
    being found.

  128. JanetRuth says:

    Hidden Hands

    …they are hidden from me,
    those flying fingers
    those smiling eyes
    but daily they open the gateway
    to poetic paradise!

    Thank-you~

  129. WHERE’S WALDO

    Right there in the corner, pen and pad in hand,
    scribbling words and phrases over by the band.
    Ski cap striped and wooly, fuzzy ball on top,
    writing prose and poetry. Will he ever stop?
    Blend into the background, in his banded shirt
    searching for his Wilma in her red lined skirt.
    Being inconspicuous, in his secret way,
    lost within the pattern without a word to say.
    A wanderer, a nomad, a traveler and guide,
    with a crowd and that red and white shirt, it’s easier to hide.
    Up before the sun comes out, while the world still sleeps,
    on the web to write his words of poetry, quite deep.
    So you can scan to find this guy, but friend, why should you care.
    Look for the words that touch your heart, you’re sure to find him there.

    Or there.

    No wait, he’s over here,

    or…where is that son-of-a-bitch?

  130. Same Ol’ Dance

    waltzing to mystery’s music
    dancing around our secrets
    never allowing truth to be revealed
    a little sidestep shuffle
    past the obvious
    seeking to remain oblivious

  131. Jane Shlensky says:

    Big Heads Seek Bodies

    For centuries they’ve watched the skies
    like stony sentries stationed, stolid
    while eroding soil slid into place
    around them, Nature’s blanket.
    Left to lift our questing spirits
    were the heads themselves, domed
    bald pates, dark eyes lifted.

    What is it they see or look for,
    eyes perpetually lifted?
    Their alien creators, some say;
    they look to God, believers believe,
    and shouldn’t we? They are us,
    defenders defend. They are not,
    detractors detract—look at the shape
    of those big heads, will you? Is
    Mr. Potato-head real, Easter Island
    his place of origin?

    What scholarly wag finally saluted
    this idea: let’s dig them up! See
    what lies below those eyes! Maybe
    potato eyes, latent sprouters, or
    secret chambers and burial vaults
    like the pyramids, or gold and
    jewels to shore up world economies.
    Maybe a humpty-dumpty wall
    where they’ve sat forever weebling
    in terror of a tumble to the sea.

    Maybe beating hearts, awaiting
    Indiana Jones and an EKG.
    But now we know what lies
    beneath their heads: um, bodies.
    Remove the soil cloak wrapped
    around their slumped shoulders
    and find pudgy bodies hidden
    away like corpulent ladies in mumus.
    They stand on squatty legs, one
    kneeling, with so much more
    for us to learn from these serenely
    cerebral beings on Big Head Island.

    So inspired are archeologists that
    a team has been dispatched to pursue
    leads in the disappearance of
    presidential thighs and backsides
    possibly hidden away in
    Mt. Rushmore’s caves and hillsides.

  132. PKP says:

    To all on The Street… looking forward to delicious post dinner reading …. Happy poeming !

  133. JanetRuth says:

    Hidden Hope

    The meaning is hidden now…
    I know
    But you do not long remain
    A child
    …and our hope
    Is to raise
    Not a child
    But honorable,
    Independent
    Willing
    Hard-working
    Contributing
    Adults

    My dear,
    The present is always
    Vapor on the tongue
    But the future depends
    On it

    The meaning is hidden now…
    …what you are learning
    Is not for today
    But for an eternity of
    Tomorrows

  134. PKP says:

    in the town of Find
    nobody lost their mind
    no one patted on pockets
    or bemoaned missing keys, socks or lockets
    in this town where one could unwind

    (with limericky apologies for bad form to the impeccably timed Ms Mad)

  135. JanetRuth says:

    Hidden Man

    Under those freckles
    And under your blush
    Beneath your ‘caught-between’ voice
    Of adolescent rush
    Inside this bud
    Of ruddy tan
    I see the stirring
    Of a man

  136. JanetRuth says:

    Hidden Ocean

    Sometimes I keep hidden
    Those thoughts I should let show
    The pride I have in my children
    And the gift of watching them grow

    Oh, they all know that I love them
    And often I tell them so
    But the depth of it is hidden
    In life’s constant ebb and flow

    Beneath the holding and scolding
    The trial and error of youth
    I see the future unfolding
    And past’s undaunted truth

    Time’s swift tumble is hidden
    In a volley of laughter and tears
    It comes and leaves, unbidden
    From moments to hours to years

    …passing through my fumbling fingers
    Its eagerness I cannot quell
    But oft in the evening lingers
    A low and bleeding knell

    …because sometimes I keep hidden
    Those things that I should not
    While time speeds by unbidden
    On the heels of second-thought

    • SharieO says:

      This perfectly captures what so often happens…that we’re busy with the small moments of day-to-day things and lose focus on the very, very limited time we have with our children as they grow up before our eyes. Mine are there, and I cherish every last moment and hour and year, though I often think back on how much “more” I could have, should have, and wish I would have…
      Anyway, what you said much better than I did here :)

      • JanetRuth says:

        SharieO, thank-you, I think you summarized my thoughts perfectly!

        I would love to comment on many poems tonight but it keeps telling me I’m posting too quickly. They must be very busy tonight! I

  137. JanetRuth says:

    Hidden Art

    Mom, why do we need to learn this? they wail
    To learn the art of learning, her reply

    God, why do I need to learn this, she wails
    To learn the art of trusting, His reply

  138. MiskMask says:

    Where Did You Hide My Phone?

    He says it’s his age;
    Can’t find a thing.
    I say it’s
    Just the way that he is.
    Loveably forgetful.
    That’s my man.

  139. dextrousdigits says:

    WHERE OH WHERE

    OK I had that paper in my hand just seconds ago,
    where is it?
    It’s not on top the desk,
    or next to the computer
    or fallen on the floor
    Oh where Oh where has my paper gone.

    I’ll just go to the store
    and get the groceries and look for it when I get back.
    Now where are my keys?
    Let’s see I had them last night
    when I came home from the library.
    They’re not next to the books.
    Oh ya, I stopped at the pharmacy before I came home.
    NO, the keys aren’t by the medications.

    It’s kind of chilly in here
    I’ll just put on my sweater.
    Here are my keys in my pocket.
    Great, I can go to the store
    as soon as I go to the bathroom
    and brush my hair.
    Well how do you like that
    all has been revealed
    Here is my paper
    I better take care of this paper work.
    I’ll just put the keys back in my pocket
    so they will be safe when I need them later.

  140. THE SESTINA HIDDEN IN FIBONACCI (SESTINACCI)

    Love
    lives.
    Each heart
    knows its beat.
    All who love find peace.
    Of these it is the greatest gift.

    Gift.
    Love’s
    is peace.
    And it lives
    within each true heart.
    Its pulse is felt in every beat.

    Beat.
    Gift
    of heart,
    sounds of love’s
    passion changes lives
    and fills your very soul with peace.

    Peace
    beats
    through life.
    It’s a gift;
    the comfort of love
    given to fill a longing heart.

    Heart.
    Pieces
    of love
    in full beats.
    A treasure; a gift,
    a prize to hold for all your life.

    Live
    heart!
    The gift
    of true peace,
    the essence of love,
    as measured in pulses and beats.

    The ability to love lives in each of us.
    In the beat of every heart there is this message,
    the peace of mind it offers is the greatest of gifts.

  141. PKP says:

    all collectively
    one world, one love, many lives
    inseparable

    *
    Happy Passover, Happy Easter
    Happy DAY
    Write on!

  142. Marmalade

    To me, it is a
    sweet reminder of my youth,
    thick cut oranges
    dark and rich as the city
    I came back to discover.

    But to the gloved man
    pawing through the underwear
    spread across his desk
    it is a potential bomb
    and I am in the dog house.

    Looking up, he asks
    why I was in the country.
    I tell him: football.
    He sighs and says he would like
    to take his boy to Wembley.

    On this common ground
    all suspicion is diffused.
    But he keeps the jar.
    If I had his job, I would
    always take the marmalade.

  143. Marianv says:

    Hide it as Long as I can

    Oh, I have a wonderful piece of news
    But telling it will only bring on the blues
    I must keep this secret, but people will talk
    They will watch my waistline and the way I walk

    He still has to be told, but not right away
    He likes little children, but what will he say
    when he finds out his baby will be here soon!
    I will have to remind him of that night when the moon

    Admired its reflection in the Stillwater lake
    and there in the moonlight we made a mistake-
    No, I cannot say that a mistake was made.
    This child will be loved and welcomed, I’ve prayed

    For his health and his safety, but now I must hide
    This wonderful secret that I carry inside!

  144. PKP says:

    Joy

    Come out
    Come out
    Wherever
    You
    Are
    as you
    always
    reveal
    your
    tiny
    delighted
    self
    with
    grateful
    giggles
    as the
    Big People
    come
    with
    soft
    smiles
    and gentle
    hands
    tumbling
    together
    in joyful
    reunion
    on the
    cushioned
    carpet
    of yesterday

  145. Earl Parsons says:

    I left it right there
    Did it sprout legs and walk off
    Where could it have gone
    Maybe I’m just getting old
    Wait, what’s that in my pocket?

  146. RJ Clarken says:

    Secret Code

    “Hidden in a long line of text, there are perhaps three lines that count.” ~Alexander Kluge

    Onetwothreefourfivesixseven…
    I can count beyond eleven
    or even twelve, or twenty-three,
    but guess what’s hidden deep in me.

    A line that counts? Just look above
    and you will know what I speak of:
    there’s hidden magic. Read and see,
    and guess what’s hidden deep in me.

    See, numbers can be used for tricks.
    And now you’re searching. Ha! Transfix!
    The secret’s in my poetry,
    but guess what’s hidden deep in me.

    Yes, words and digits do comprise
    the universe (it’s in disguise!)
    I’m counting on you…find the key
    and guess what’s hidden deep in me.

    ###

  147. dextrousdigits says:

    Being a gardener myself, I can totally relate.
    All the work of shoveling, turning soil, putting seeds in, delicately covering them,
    watering diligently is all paid of in that miraculous second you see that sprout
    push it’s way out of the earth toward the sky.
    Truly a moment of birth.
    LOVED YOUR POEM

  148. PKP says:

    In The Attic Shining

    In the attic ensconced
    in collaborative survival
    breathing intergenerational
    stale air and collective fear
    in the dim weakened light
    the bloom, blossomed
    still in the certainty
    that at heart all people
    are basically good
    even as the door crashed
    and she fresh faced
    was borne anew by rough hands
    unseen by cloistered hearts brutality
    humanity in zig zagged hiding
    herded humanity forever shining
    from the attic in dancing, dreaming
    words of youth immortal
    echo in the cindered six
    in all to after come
    the sweet sound
    of first bloom
    in the attic
    shining
    still

  149. Earl Parsons says:

    Visibly Hidden

    You don’t exist
    So the naysayers say
    No one can see you
    No one has seen you
    And
    In their words
    No one will see you
    Because
    You don’t exist
    Or so they proclaim
    With their mouths

    But their eyes
    Tell a different story
    Because
    Deep down inside
    Something in their soul
    Tells them the truth
    The whole truth
    And nothing but the truth

    Yet
    They reiterated
    That you don’t exist
    Because they can’t see you
    They can’t feel you
    They can’t touch you
    All the while feeling
    Their denial
    Their self deception
    Their loss

    Granted
    You don’t walk around
    Or show yourself
    In ways of old
    When you walked with man
    And talked with man
    Performed miracles
    Demonstrated your powers
    Destroyed evil
    Lead armies
    And so on

    But you never left us
    You’ve protected us
    You’ve provided for us
    You’ve proven yourself
    Over and over again
    And you’ve shown yourself
    Over and over again
    To those of us that believe

    You do exist
    You have been seen
    You can be touched
    We have felt your presence
    Over and over again
    In our lives
    In the lives of others
    In the world
    In nature
    In life

    You may be hidden to some
    However
    You are in no way hiding
    All one needs to do
    Is open their hearts
    And their eyes will see you
    Visibly hidden no more

  150. PowerUnit says:

    “My Son”

    Your black hat a beacon
    You stroll through the mall
    A prophetic deacon
    A comfortable wall

    Your hands stuffed in
    Your safari capris
    Hiding your sin
    Setting you free?

    Your long hair
    Do you like that look?
    Do you like the air
    Of a man with a book?

    The real world approaches
    It’s coming on fast
    The cold room and roaches
    You know it can’t last

    It’s coming up soon
    You are not a wraith
    Your life it will bloom
    Of that I have faith

  151. “Don’t Tell Your Grandma, Boy”

    In one of the pockets
    Of one of my coats
    In one of the closets
    Where one of my boots
    Sits lazily sideward
    On one of its heels
    There is a letter
    A love one. It’s real.
    The paper is browning
    The paper is brown.
    The paper is brittle
    You should hear the sound
    Of uncreasing and cracking,
    When carefully moved.
    You should see the writing
    For then it would prove
    When we were in high school
    Your principal did
    Everything that
    I told you she did.

  152. Ber says:

    Hidden Away

    Cabin in the forest
    all dusty and empty
    Who lives in there
    do you wander the floor
    do you ever go outside the door

    why when i call out
    dont you answer me
    surely your not that shy
    who can you be

    Theres someone in there
    i leave food by the steps
    the leaves have been swept off
    the railings and shelves

    Will you be okay on your own tonight ?
    will you be scared and lonely?
    In the dark or the light
    As i turn to walk away

    The curtain turns back
    i can barely see you
    But i think you want me to come back
    As i keep walking and taking my steps

    you open the door and show yourself
    Your image is that of a lonely lady
    why are you here all on your own
    Your clothes are tattered old and worn

    You reach out to me for help
    I see that you want me to know
    That your ready now
    dont want me to go

    I walk up and hold onto you
    we sit and talk about what has happened
    your whole life through
    Your life has been hard

    You have chosen this card
    Of opening up and leting someone in
    Your smiling now
    Not living a sin

    You didnt deserve your isolation
    you didnt deserve a life of complication
    Just know now you have a friend for ever
    Dont be a stranger i will be here for you no matter what
    I’m glad i met you the lady of the cabin hut

  153. HannaAnna says:

    Hidden Talent

    I want to write
    but my talent seems to be hidden
    or do I possess it at all
    I search for it in books
    in my dreams
    in my words
    in my thoughts
    I haven’t found it yet
    but I’ll never stop searching

  154. NESTING

    Beneath the roof awning,
    a tiny bird
    hides in her nest—
    so my heart hides from you,
    waiting for the rebirth of joy.

    Jane Beal

  155. Jannelee says:

    COFFEE

    Oily, brown beans
    kept sealed in the freezer
    clatter into the grinder
    like brown pearls, glistening
    the whir of the blades
    drowns all conversation
    loose brown powder
    spills into the white paper sleeve
    fresh water in a clear urn
    poured quickly into the reservoir
    flip a switch, a pungent smell
    invades the room
    it’s heady aroma
    calls forth the zombies
    led by their noses
    one by one they
    shuffle into the kitchen
    grab their favorite cup
    a splash of milk in this one
    a dollop of cream in that one
    strong brown gold
    hidden in a little brown bean
    jumpstarts the morning!

  156. THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

    Not everything is black and white
    or muted shades of gray,
    there’s more to life than meets the eye,
    there’s plenty more to say.

    We hide our hearts in wondered words,
    and hope the message sells,
    we pray that love steps to the fore
    with romantic things to say.

    But truth resides within the soul,
    not dressed with “hearts and flowers”
    You can wax poetic all night long
    and mystify for hours, but

    it is in the meaning that is meant,
    it is in the love procured,
    the truest form is safe and warm
    with its purity assured.

    No screens of smoke or veiled verse
    can set your love asail,
    But, honesty will help you see
    the devil in the details.

  157. Hiding In Plain Sight

    I saw you on the bus but you chose not to see me
    Because my skin was tinted differently
    And my ragged clothes were a bit dirty

    On the sidewalk you passed me by
    Without even a glance or simple ‘hi’
    I shuffle along wondering why

    I don’t want to get in your way or interfere
    I don’t need money, drugs, or booze, I swear
    All I want is for someone to see I’m here

  158. Hannah says:

    ~KEEPING VIGIL~

    Beneath the surface
    of this slow flesh,
    soft, blood-sifting heart,
    inside resides,
    pressed poignantly
    in dark beating cavity
    the most vital root.
    Within watery
    dew pooled
    depths of deep
    peering portals,
    keen eyes search,
    for evidence
    of the most essential,
    elemental to her being.
    With her palms
    poised patiently,
    outstretched,
    open for receiving,
    for giving;
    she’s placing her faith
    in the vital root,
    in the elemental evidence.
    She’s giving of herself
    gaining in grace, Love.

    © H.G. @ P.A. 4/6/12

  159. Marjory MT says:

    BOXES
    Big ones, little ones,
    fat ones, flat ones,
    Long ones, skinny ones,
    round or square ones.
    Black, white, pink and purple.
    Glad ones, sad ones,
    old and new ones.
    Some with bows,
    some with ribbons.
    Brightly papered or dingy blue.

    Used for storing, sorting, giving,
    Used for carrying, dumping, hidding.
    Boxes, boxes everwhere.
    Some to see through, some to cover,
    Some to open some to close.
    Close –protect what’s deep inside.
    Flaps to close and tuck away
    So out is out and in’s to stay.
    Comfy, cosy little boxes.
    Quiet, snug and warm.

    Open wide the little boxes.
    Let the sun come flooding in.
    Let the world share in the flooding,
    turn the hinges out.
    Pretty boxes standing open -
    Flaps and walls come tumbling down.

  160. Robert, that is one awesome poem! :)

  161. Parenthood equals childhood squared

    means you get a second
    secret
    childhood in your children’s secret
    childhood

    and not “in” as in “through”
    like the lousy parents who have to
    share everything – the one kid
    always responsible
    for nixing the entire class over
    and over again –
    you know who you are….

    And not “in” as in “care”
    like the mediocre ones who always
    let on and slip
    down the royal road to riches, and scamming
    and shaming by the savvy little
    investors playing
    those fools like this little piggy
    going to the rigged market,
    wheeee!…

    Oh no! It’s the screaming
    “you don’t understand!”,
    door slamming victory cry
    of the truly righteous
    c squared p as in proud parents
    who never, ever get suspected
    of being the secretly cool ones,
    the ones who know
    you have to go on different rides
    the second time
    around
    your
    Disneyland.

  162. laurie kolp says:

    Dulce de Leche

    Hidden
    in a corner
    of the freezer
    w-a-y back
    behind
    the green beans
    and chicken breasts
    covered
    in a thin layer
    of frost
    the kind you scratch
    with your fingernail
    draw hearts
    or XOXO
    because it’s mine
    and I can’t wait
    until Sunday
    to eat ice cream again.

  163. LOVE AND THE HIDDEN HEART

    In your dream of our contentment
    you take pause to smile. A hearty upturn
    of a longing lip offering a sip of the nectar that is you.
    My craving is an inner wanting that can’t be placated
    or sated with a single taste. But, in haste I cling
    to my hidden place and watch where your fearful heart goes.
    Your direction shows me your step is unsure,
    your quavering smile; a shield behind which to hide
    your tender desires and wishes; a delicious brew
    that steeps passionately inside your hidden heart.
    Clutching to your chest the memory of love’s first longing
    and feeling the strong urge to splurge with your emotion,
    a loving devotion to a soulful connection. Exposing only
    to eyes that know and feel, you steel your heart, providing sanctuary.

  164. Marjory MT says:

    HEART’S CRY

    I want to run away and hide deep within my being. To be that me I want to be without another seeing.

    To feel the world and I as one in quiet solitude.

    To feel the burdens of my day
    fall from my shrouded brain,
    and wash away the dross of day
    as doth the fallen rain.

  165. Nancy J says:

    The Ultimate Immigrant

    They stowed away on Columbus’s ships,
    on a one way trip. They curled in the darkness,
    unaware of their dangerous journey. It would not
    have mattered. If their world trembled as it crossed
    the sea, it caused them no worry, having no fear
    of death, no hopes for tomorrow. They lived
    for their work, and they did it well. Centuries later,
    the New World is transformed by the toil of these tiny
    immigrants and their descendants. A toast! To the
    earthworm! Welcome to America. We’re glad you came.

  166. Imaginalchemy says:

    “The Junk Rat of the Quick-Fingers Company”

    Racing
    Scrounging
    Picking
    Pocketing
    Twisting your ring around in my fingers
    But you won’t miss it
    You’ll buy another from that bubble-laying
    Vending machine

    The other thieves of our brotherly fraternity,
    they know us as the Quick Fingers Company
    Say all I bring back is junk
    What a load of skeptical bunk

    So I keep my findings in my nest
    Stashed away, hidden from the rest

    Snooping
    Prying

    Keeping my ear to the ground
    To hear for any invasive sound

    Deceiving
    Lying

    When the boss demands to see my finds
    He tells me my garbage wastes his time

    Bleeding
    Crying

    My hide’s a tapestry of disciplinary bruises
    For all of my lame excuses
    At night I hide in my treasure trove
    With all my purloined prizes that I love

    Breathing
    Sighing

    I may not pilfer gold or silver or jewel
    But at least you won’t think me cruel
    If I take what you would have let decay
    I’ll love it forever in my hideaway

    Protecting
    Keeping
    Smiling
    Sleeping

  167. CMcGowan says:

    Standing right in front of you
    the moment reaches out.
    It’s right there,
    the proverbial snake
    taking the bate
    of you.
    Nudging, pushing,
    shoving your hand
    to reach for a land
    known only in your dreams,
    it seems.
    Days passing by
    the moment wondering why?
    It hasn’t been seized
    ready to please
    your every wish.
    Pulling you away
    from the day to day
    suffocation, offering elation.
    Frowning as you pass it
    like two sailing ships
    shrouded in the darkness
    of the night.

  168. RJ Clarken says:

    The Isle of Misfit Socks

    They are a pair when they go in
    your washer, through both rinse and spin.
    The next step is to get them dry.
    Then one goes missing. Wonder why?

    There is a hidden isle for clothes:
    a place where only one sock goes
    just as its sad sock-mate stands by.
    One sock goes missing. Wonder why?

    You search but no sock’s ever seen
    near dryer or the wash machine.
    You whine. You make a battle cry.
    Still one sock’s missing. Wonder why

    one oddball sock is always gone?
    For some odd reason, it is drawn
    so mismatched socks get piled high.
    I still can’t help but wonder why.

    ###

  169. Mystical-Poet says:

    Shadow World

    sharpened daylight breaches shadow world
    marginalized, shrouded in perpetual terbacker mist
    peckerwood pub specter-haunted by vintage Wurlitzer
    spewing steady drawl of an off-kilter has-been
    a slack-jawed banshee crooning from beyond the grave
    rhomboid windowpanes rattling in contempt
    sorrow-sick songster sunk in oblivion
    clouds torn to rags, buried in eyes
    blood tears dripping, incurable, terminal
    squandered heartaches and shortchanged theatrics
    fleeting and indifferent as a starless sky

    ~ Randy Bell ~

  170. SharieO says:

    Thank you, kind sir! I love it…and live it! Hehe

    • SharieO says:

      Well, good grief…it’s not my stupor this time…this was meant for and originally typed under Jerry’s latest above…but after the “You’re posting too fast, dummy!” message, this is where it ended up…
      Maybe this is Monday instead of Friday…

  171. I AM NOT (ALL) HERE

    My mind is an enigma, a riddle for the ages,
    I play with words; mundane, absurd, and pen them on these pages.

    Thoughts I have become my foil, there’s really no denying,
    that sometimes I go “off the Wal” without even trying.

    I can write the tender poem; cut my heart and bleed,
    I have penned a loving tome; my father’s son indeed.

    I can twist a meaning and write from in left field,
    I have written tributes; from my grateful soul I yield.

    Sometimes I get the words just right, and sometimes I’m at a loss,
    everytime I try to write, I’ll show the words who’s boss.

    But when the muse is languishing and I can’t write a thing,
    (my two left feet won’t let me dance and I sure as hell can’t sing),

    I’ll leave a blank where the right word goes, instead of sit and stare,
    and hope to come and fill it in because sometimes I am not (all) there.

  172. “The New Abnormal”
    – for SharieO

    between
    morning light
    and coffee,
    someone lives
    inside my head,
    thinking groggy thoughts,
    drawing indirect lines
    between A and B
    and discovering
    the circuitous route
    is sometimes
    the best.

  173. just Lynne says:

    I’ll think about this prompt for a while today. Here’s an older poem that I think fits the prompt. I wrote it for the qualifiers for the Cleveland representative for the World Poetry Slam, 2011. -Lynne

    September 5, 2011

    when I was twenty I lost the ability to speak
    it was my only way of survival
    to shut down
    to withdraw my tongue,
    so it lay prostate on the floor of my mouth

    at first I chose to be mute
    then I forgot how to form sentences
    and words
    sometimes I tried and mumbled swarthy letters
    that couldn’t be assembled

    I lost the ability to write as well
    the blank page gleamed a righteous white in front of me
    and the jumble of thoughts in my head couldn’t be sorted into sentences
    or stanzas
    they defied organization

    I tried to stop thinking at all
    and sought to discover how to be deaf
    so I wouldn’t have anything to respond to
    because I couldn’t hear

    I fell asleep during conversations:
    the best way to remain untouched
    though I kept being scolded for my absence
    and sloth
    they thought my silence meant I was so sick
    it would take years to pull me out of myself
    they thought there was so much darkness in me
    I could only be silent
    because speaking would hurt too much

    no
    I couldn’t speak because speaking would enter me
    into this manufactured world I couldn’t handle
    I couldn’t speak because being silent was my only way of escaping
    because mind control was their game and I wasn’t playing it
    I checked out so they had no material to manipulate
    except my absence

    finally I discovered I could still draw
    on my notebook, in Prismacolor markers
    I drew faces I didn’t understand
    each face a long continuous line
    eyes, nose, mouth flowing out, curves of hair
    then sometimes coloring in sections
    like a child biting his lip, coloring his coloring page
    with fierce intensity
    knowing every stroke could break it

    and sometimes allowing the line to speak alone
    I hid the notebook afterwards
    I wouldn’t give anything away

    six months later I returned to college
    and submitted a few faces to the literary magazine
    that year the magazine had no title on the cover
    only one of my faces graced it
    and then I knew that speaking wasn’t necessary
    my face spoke enough

    • laurie kolp says:

      Wow! This makes me wonder what happened to get you to that place. I especially like- it would take years to pull me out of myself.

    • RJ Clarken says:

      What a journey. Like Laurie said, I wonder what precipitated this…

    • cindishipley says:

      I feel that this is a metaphor and not specifically realistic….although I am sure I could be wrong. But at any rate, it is a fabulous expression of the role art takes in our lives.

      • just Lynne says:

        Actually it is realistic. I was recovering from something traumatic and was placed in restricted setting where I wasn’t free to express myself. Hurt and overwhelmed, I retreated inside myself, because only there I was safe. For the three months I lived there, I barely spoke of myself (my true feelings etc.) It didn’t seem safe to write either, plus I couldn’t seem to express all that I felt into words. Finally I was able to draw, and it was so validating that one of my face pictures was put on the cover of the literary magazine. I still didn’t know what the face meant but it spoke to people. Previously, I had been branded “non-compliant” and extremely sick, but actually I was just hiding to protect myself. When it was safe I came out again.

        People who have been in other restrictive situations have told me that they identify with this poem.

        So… thank you. Maybe it’s not important that it is a realistic part of my story. Thank you for calling it “fabulous.”

    • I am one who can identify. Haven’t quite been there, but very close. I’m glad you found the right way to protect yourself, and also the best way to communicate.

      You have certainly recovered your writing skills now!

  174. SharieO says:

    Why do we willingly put ourselves
    Daily under your seductive spell
    Submitting to your power you wield so deliciously

    Some say you are a curse, others a blessing from heav’n
    I know the truth lies somewhere in between
    You cunning marvel of hidden treasures with bite

    You have the power to resurrect the dead
    Over and over again like a mysterious magic
    Daily withered from toil but by morn we are made new

    You crouching tiger, you hidden beautiful dragon
    You’re like the water’s beauty at rest
    But in an instant you break out your power

    You seduce us to help us to work again
    In a not unpleasant way you win
    Oh, coffee, you are our dear morning friend

    I slept late and woke up in a groggy fog this morning,
    and as I went straight in to the kitchen to brew the
    coffee, this idea popped into my head…silly…I blame
    it on the weird state of mind from sleeping too long! ;)

  175. Linda Voit says:

    Hide the Button

    We, the great grand children, eyes closed,
    ears perked to hear the starter gun
    Find the button!
    Eyes pop open. We scatter
    across her living room
    and dining room searching wildly
    for the one and a half inch
    smooth burgundy holy grail
    that must have been part
    of a coat once.

    I could not believe our luck –
    over and over and over –
    her willingness to let us search
    every time
    while she just had to sit there
    in a chair saying
    You’re getting warmer
    Oh, you’re getting cooler, cooler
    warmer, warmer, waaaaaaarmer.

    Linda Voit

  176. One of life’s greatest joys
    was to scare my poor little mother.

    Lurking Shadows

    Lurking, lurking shadows
    Go creep, creep, creep
    Prowling boys stealth gamble
    Unhinged mothers
    Weep, weep, weep

    Veiled deadly assassins
    With hollow hearts
    And ghostly eyes
    With deucedly sinister schemes
    Profound in element of surprise

    Yet these skilled vigilantes
    In concealment
    These canny masters of disguise
    Seek not the pleasure of hiding, but
    Horrified mommies and their cries

  177. Marie Elena says:

    Here is an older one. I’ll return later with a new one.

    GOOD FRIDAY

    Look at me.
    What do you see?
    Genuine smile?
    Tender eyes?
    Watch me.
    What do I do?
    Lend a hand?
    Feed the poor?
    Look closer.
    What do you see?
    Greed?
    Lust?
    Laziness?
    Selfishness?
    Lack of faith?
    Perhaps my sin
    Is not glaring.
    But it is sin
    Nevertheless.
    And my sin
    Killed my Christ.

  178. Hidden

    Who he is
    is hidden
    by his autism.
    Oh, but he does
    come out
    in the blink of his eyes,
    to say, “I’m listening,”
    in his awkward hugs
    and clicky kisses,
    his, “mum mum,”
    “yep yep,”
    and, “ca-ca-ca-cookie.”
    And am I going crazy
    or was that a sentence?

  179. ely the eel says:

    Hidden Late at Night

    To those of you in the east, or other early-to-bed types, there are some wonderful postings from last night, using yesterday morning’s prompt…seingraham, Daniel Ari, Mike Grove, Bruce Niedt, among many others…it would be a shame to miss them

  180. laurie kolp says:

    Good morning! I actually wrote this Rubaiyat last night…

    Longing For You

    Ligustrum fills the air with vibrancy
    An unseen waterfall of fragrant dreams
    Overnight white blossoms spread like snow
    Against the smooth as pebble leaves I see

    You like a wilting branch that slouches low
    With hair a nest of twigs, an old scarecrow
    Scratchy skin and hollow eyes you are
    A mirage in the quiet moonlit glow

    I hide behind the oak, watch from afar
    In twilight moves I wish upon a star
    Romanticize, throw kisses in the air
    While etched forever on my heart, a scar

    A lifeless vision, are you really there?
    I long to hold you, whisper how I care
    Into your breathless arms run unaware
    Into your breathless arms run unaware

  181. JUST BENEATH
    the litter of autumn
    the hodgepodge of leaf and twig
    just below the rich, black mulch
    through which worms aerate,
    a sprig of green,lies hidden,
    like a pirate’s treasure, but
    tenacious enough to want more
    than undiscovered beauty.
    Pushing its way through the debris
    of yesteryear – up into the Light -
    spring’s first blossom
    reveals its glory!

  182. “This World”

    Deep
    intense dreams
    interrupted
    by the grating sound
    of the alarm
    leave me
    temporarily
    in a state
    where I feel
    I can choose
    between hidden worlds.
    I groggily stand
    and hope
    this world
    is the one
    I stepped into
    yesterday.

  183. WITHER GOEST THOU ALLEN FUNT?

    Lurking in the shadows
    watching “everyman”
    making observations
    putting them in the can.
    Whacky situation,
    tricks to boggle minds
    You set the tone for those
    who “punk’d”; that’s being kind.
    You showed the kids
    explain the world
    with a hearty laugh.
    You exposed the slips
    and faux pas and every worded gaff.
    You developed Candid Camera
    with your intrusive style.
    were you still here, I give a cheer
    with just one word: SMILE
    (you’re on Candid Camera!)

  184. emmajordan says:

    Everything is breaking
    falling down
    crashing.
    Like forests under threat from loggers
    I quake.
    Mind battling going into underdrive
    concealing breakdown hurt
    helplessness.
    Remembrance hides
    deep within the folds of forgetting
    and threatens lifelong abandonment.
    A word
    touch
    all too difficult.
    I want to go away.
    Leave me alone I
    can’t
    help.
    I can’t experience your pain any more
    it resurrects mine too easily.
    I am in a battle to stay alive.

  185. Where did I put them?
    My keys are not anywhere
    and I go nowhere!

  186. IN PLAIN SIGHT

    To look at me, an average guy,
    awkward at times, my shoulders slump,
    and I jump at loud noise. My voice wavers
    from whisper thin to STRONG AND BOMBASTIC.
    I stick to the script under watchful eyes
    but here in my shadow, I improvise.
    To pick me out would be finding the needle,
    me and my haystack are all I need.
    But put words in my head an I find
    that my mind is of a poetic kind.
    I’ll string you along and then lower the boom
    and I’ll rhyme all night long, never done too soon.
    So do not judge this book; this cover deceives
    and that is what this poet believes!

Leave a Reply