For today’s prompt, write a hide out poem. When I was a kid, we’d build “hide outs,” I guess from our parents or other kids. An assortment of criminals (fictionalized and real) have their hide outs. But maybe there are other hide outs, like a “man cave,” “she shed,” or the local pub. Heck, maybe it’s the library. Give it a thought, and I’m sure you’ll find the right hide out poem for you.
The first few days here I got worried I'd spend the month writing "kid poems" but now here's a perfect subject for a kid poem and what came out was about my childhood but definitely not a kid poem.
ReplyDeleteSANCTUARY
In summer, the backyard tent
became home for me, away
from the closeness of indoor
hot rooms and even hotter
tempers, parental bellows,
insults flying, filling all
the empty space in the house.
I could hide out in the tent,
twelve foot by twelve foot refuge,
listen to birdsong, crickets, read
library books that I stashed
under the inflatable
mattress. I slept peacefully,
dreamed about fictional lives.
Childhood is a time for hiding out, you have gotten that correct, and the feeling tone of the poem is very fine. You have said a lot in a short time.
DeleteMy Refuge
ReplyDeletethe smell of musty decorations
for all the seasons of the year
the mysterious truck was there
that came all the way from Spain
the top stet of the attic
at mom's house was the only refuge for me
she couldn't find me there
no one really looked
I could talk on the phone in private
I could even read a book
without demands or commands
It was the only peace I had for several years
While she grew more and more feeble
I sat in my refuge and thought sometimes
Just sat there and thought
what would it be like without her
and now I know
she's gone
The Christmas girl is gone.
Truck is supposed to be trunk!!!
DeleteYes, and Stet is undoubtedly step, yes? I am happy to know that is a trunk, though it being a toy truck could be ok.
DeleteLOL. I knew exactly the spot you are talking about and I didn't even notice you wrote "truck," read it as "trunk," which is now in my basement. I think I am going to try to find a spot for it up here.
Deleteas a child it was easy
ReplyDeleteto find a hiding place.
there were hundreds of them
inside my books. I could be
Jan Bobbsey at the Seashore
or become Jo in Little Women
fall in love with Betty Smith's
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn!
Cry for Anne Frank and mourn
for Lou Gehrig - the luckiest
man in the world. The list
goes on in my memory.
As an adult it became more
difficult to find a place to hide.
Now it is my half bath in the
very back of the house where
I can shut two doors between
me and my husbands rants.
But at this moment there are
no real hiding places. I lay in a
hospital bed wearing only my
underwear & their opened at
the back gowns exposed to
all who pass by. I could close
the door but then the world
disappears and I cease to
exist. So I sit and lie here
afraid to shut the door lest
what remains of my world
will disappear & I will
cease to exist
Wow. This is immensely powerful. And funny how we both talked about escaping by reading as a kid.
DeleteWOW!!! Vivid! Thanks! This is a very powerful poem. And I wrote mine too, about hiding in my mind. Interesting. Perhaps there is some kind of psychic link going on here.
DeleteThis is definately a WOW poem!!!!! actually the three of us mentioned books in our poems. Your poem is an extremely powerfilled poem. I enjoyed it very much. I will send you all these comments.
DeleteI remember Run Sheep Run,
ReplyDeletecrowding into the hideout
with all the others who
had found it. Giggling
while the hunters came looking
until time for sports was over
and we had to come in
and get on the bus for home.
I remember Hide and Seek,
in my childhood crouching,
making myself small, hoping
to be invisible; and then
as a parent pretending not
to peek as my child
hid somewhere wishing
not to be found easily.
Now my hideouts are
in the byways of my mind
where I go sometimes
on a busy day to play
and no one can find me
because I am not there
to be found because I am
invisible to the seeking eye.
I guess writer's do all hide in their minds sometimes, and sometimes some of it leaks out onto paper.
DeleteI guess writer's do all hide in their minds sometimes, and sometimes some of it leaks out onto paper.
DeleteCaution--
ReplyDeleteAlways one eye behind me.
Anxious--
Door.
Locked.
Relics of life,
Toasty, serene,
comfortable.
Safe--
my hiding place.
Hideout Poem
ReplyDeleteBefore I was five I knew
the small dark places were mine:
under the dining room table,
tablecloth nearly to the floor,
underneath my bed, in my closet
behind my clothes, behind the couch
in the living room. I would sit
scrunched and silent,
deep in my imagination.
I loved how LARGE I felt
in spaces so small I could reach out
both hands and touch walls.
I felt safe in my hideouts
and when my brother was old
enough to crawl, big enough
to touch my stuff, my favorite toys
were safe in my secret fortresses.
It made my mother cross
when she couldn’t find me.
She thought I was spying,
listening in on adult conversations.
She accused me of hiding,
to get out of doing my chores.
She was suspicious of the difference
between us: my love of tight spots,
her near-crippling claustrophobia.
©Priscilla Anne Tennant Herrington
ReplyDeleteHiding Out For A While
Home is where you are safe
where you can be alone
without despair
.
Where you know
which windows will let in the sun
what cabinet holds the tea
.
Home where the familiar hides
you from change
at least for now