2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

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

to mess with
his old man.


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512 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

  1. PassionateQuill

    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 

  2. Pris

    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.

  3. taylor graham


    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?

  4. RobHalpin

    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.

  5. Buddah Moskowitz

    Dividing Up Stuff

    It was easy
    to cheat on her
    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

    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.

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

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

    1. Andrea B

      “my performance as dutiful partner spoiled” – love that. This is one that makes you love the naughty protagonist. 😉 Really enjoyed this one, Mosk.

  6. maggzee

    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.

  7. Yolee

    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.

  8. Walt Wojtanik


    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,

  9. Beth Rodgers


    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
    Into impenetrable slumber.

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

  10. ely the eel

    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.

    1. claudsy

      This is terrific, Ely. I love how you created it as a map, but with Monopoly attitude. At the same time, it’s soft and soothing, approachable with its insight and delivery. Great job.

  11. Mariya Koleva

    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.

  12. Domino

    Hidden Treasures

    How old was I when I discovered
    the wonder hidden
    between the covers
    and on the

    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
    for myself.

    And then, the world
    opened up
    like a Faberge

    Diana Terrill Clark

  13. Janet Rice Carnahan


    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!

  14. amelia louise

    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!

  15. Janet Rice Carnahan


    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,
    Right in front of any set,
    Of truly open eyes,

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


  16. Janet Rice Carnahan


    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.

    1. claudsy

      Oooo… I like. This is a short story, a love story. Do it in prose and see how fast it’s snapped up, but do it with this voice and mood. Oh yeah, keep the mood.

      Thanks for sharing, Janet.

  17. Golden Rule

    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.

      1. Golden Rule

        Yes, it was unforgettable. We went by Corrie ten Boom’s home but it was not open they day we visited. I wish I could have visited there as well.

  18. DandPInc

    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?

  19. DanielAri


    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.


  20. barbara_y

    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

  21. claudsy

    Number 3 Poem

    Twilight Idea

    It wafts, this thought
    That titillates
    The mind; one toe
    In the present,
    The rest only
    A dim specter,
    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.

    1. Andrea B

      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!

  22. claudsy

    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.

  23. claudsy

    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.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Oh, Claudsy . . . I love this poem! It says so very much about the human experience. So true, “we cringe within prison walls of personal making”. Deep and touching!

  24. Nancy Posey

    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.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      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! 🙂

  25. Marjory MT

    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.

  26. Benjamin Thomas


    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?

  27. Michelle Hed

    Boys and Girls Play Hide and Seek (A Palindrome)

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

  28. De Jackson


    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.

  29. Domino

    Locked Down

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

  30. Domino

    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

  31. cam45237

    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.

  32. Wendy Stevens

    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.

  33. Michael Grove

    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

  34. ceeess

    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/

  35. cindishipley


    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

    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

    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.

  36. Mike Bayles

    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.

  37. Imaginalchemy

    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?

  38. posmic

    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.

  39. Walt Wojtanik


    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?

    1. JanetRuth

      A-R-R-G-H!!! I was ‘finding Waldo’ the other day with the little guy I baby-sit:) Walt, this is brilliant…love the ending…’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.’

  40. Jane Shlensky

    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.

  41. JanetRuth

    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,

    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

  42. PKP

    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)

  43. JanetRuth

    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

    1. SharieO

      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 🙂

      1. JanetRuth

        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


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