Best Hide Out Poems
The bats in the steeple were feeding on people
By sucking the blood splattered wood
That came from the coffin a vampire dropped off in
When he’d drunk all the blood that he could
Here in my basement, my permanent placement
I lurk since the day that I died
At rest in my casket, my skull in a basket
My hideous grin gaping wide
Rats and mice squeaking a rusty hinge creaking
A slither of light from outside
My long severed head was rotted and dead
But gasped as the door opened wide
I lifted my lid as some hooded kid
Crept sneakily into my crypt
He soon spun about and he might have run out
If only he hadn’t have slipped
As he hit the deck he shattered his neck
I thought he was bound to be dead
But then as he stood, he lowered his hood
And then he un-swivelled his head
He gave me a wink as a hideous stink
Came gushing with smoke from his ears
He then started hissing through teeth that were missing
He looked like he’d been dead for years
I climbed from my tomb and stood in the room
Where demons would hide out all day
Until in the night they’d screech their delight
And frighten the vicar away
But this little fellow with skin that was yellow
And nails that were long curly claws
Let out a howl, an unholy wail
Then went back and bolted the doors
Like rattles at Wembley, my bones were all trembly
My teeth were all chattering too
My wee wee was dribbling and let’s not be quibbling
I thought I was going to poo
It’s usually nice that we can’t die twice
So people down here dwell forever
I then realised that everyone dies
And now I’m not feeling too clever
For my turn came first, to enter the hearse
My beautiful love left alone
In these years apart she’s been in my heart
But hell’s darkest hole has no phone
So how could it be this thing before me
Could desecrate my sacred rest
I needed it banished, It had to be vanished
Along with the worms in its chest
I watched every worm wriggle and squirm
I jumped at the twelfth hour chime
In life we take knocks through the ticks and the tocks
But we can’t fight the passing of time
So...
In spite of the stink, I started to think
Which gave me the fright of my life
I had to make room in a new double tomb
For that hideous thing was my wife!
Entered October 2021 in Your Personal Favorite No 2
Sponsor L Milton Hankins
1996 when any music styles created became instant hits
To much R&B, rock, rap and any other genre that fits
I remember waking up early, to see my mom say hay hun
Well, she thought that but truth was I was waiting on sailer moon and pokemon
Walking to the bust stop is in good memory like yesterday
Jump the fence then take the cut and hide out until the bus rode away
I still can smell the summers I shared with my loyal crew
Entire days of hide n’ seek, manhunt, freeztag, and any other thing we wanted to do
Once I argued with my brother because he had taken my favorite color
Not just any color, but this was the green ranger, and he could’ve chose in any other
We settled this the way all things were handle back then
Paper, rock, scissors, any many mighty mo best 2 out 3, and over and over again
That contest weren’t based off skill or talent within, but somehow we thought the winners
were the real men
I won the contest of men and then we would begin, every neighborhood kid chose a fictional
character to be
After selections were made the battle royal start and quickly in and in catastrophe
Johny Twisted his ankle, jasmine was cut with a roof shingle, and then there was I
Thoughts of Ohh man I’m the greatest power ranger ever before my mother would use her
belt to make me cry
Im whipping you out of love she would say
I would think I love you to so is it possible we could turn this in my favor the other way
Then the days would fade
And rest for another day 1996 chaos in craze,
Just like yesterday, yep those were the days
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping abuse and clutches of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
~
forest creatures weep
for all the dead, fallen trees
once giving shelter
~
wolves howl piercingly
crying out for woodland plants
to carpet their home
~
raccoons scamper past
searching out their lost breakfast
amid vanished creeks
~
possum wobble by
seeking their favorite den
where serpents hide out
~
deer scamper along
looking for signs of hunters
with yearnings for night
~
The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.
The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.
Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.
The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.
The biting clouds of gnats
are now
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon,
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.
The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash! a cry! a scattering!
one down, one murder
still.
Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...
The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.
We turn our collars up,
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!
Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides
a fearful, frigid 'you.'
It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.
It's Autumn
Fall burns on.
It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)
I have never felled so alive
as now.
...Then, of course, there is the idea
that people are nothing but groups,
whether lumped by skin or income
there’s nothing further from the truth.
A group is but an abstraction,
it’s the one where the sovereignty lies.
Think individuals can’t effect change?
Just ask President forty-five.
Or Guttenberg and his printing press,
Mr. Gates and his software codes,
a single man nailed to a cross,
be he a God or man, who knows?
One person can change the whole game,
even in the ‘collectivist’ lands,
the politburo’s evils exposed
by that brave heart Solzhenitsyn.
Did they all accomplished nothing,
slaving for their dreams alone?
They gave us a host of changes,
while the socialists just give us bones.
The Nazis in their cruel madness
left ten million souls undone,
but Socialists, they take the gold,
slaughtering one hundred million.
And those are just the ones we know,
the real number’s much higher still,
all that death, and what has it brought?
No paradise, and it never will.
At least the Germans, after the war,
had the sense to learn from their mistakes,
Socialists refuse to move beyond
their ideas of murderous hate.
They just hide out in schools and claim
that they’re only ‘misunderstood,’
tied identity to failed ideas
so they can never see they’re no good.
To refuse to learn bloody lessons
strikes me as insanely perverse,
in truth they’re not as bad as Nazis,
they’re orders of magnitude worse.
As I walk through the graveled paths
When the stinging stones speak to me
Of the pain thrust on trampling feet
I see you in the unlit alleys of my memory
As the wind blows from a covert hide out
Twisting and shaking the branches of trees
Causing them to break and fly off the trunk
I see you in the torn pages of my life’s tome
As I listen to the song of lone birds
And their doleful notes fall in my ears
I am jolted out of my bohemian ways
And feel a plaintive tone floating to me
Wandering along the sprawling beach
As I hear the roar of waves
And when a humdrum of voices fills me
I hear your voice distinct like the beat of my heart
Like the pain at a needle point that shall always be
Like an intruder, nudging to steal the inner space
Like the small tremors after a fateful seismic quake
I now know that in me you stay like sleeping fury
Even when I walked away from you
You stubbornly stuck to me
Like a leech tenaciously clinging to the skin
Oh! How hard I struggle to get you off!
Sept.13.2022
~Placed First~
Re submitted for- Your Second Chance 2nd Submission
Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
If you are down and out, losing hope
Call your friends.
The ones who bring you up
Not the other ones.
Not in the mood?
Of course not.
We hide out when we need them the most.
We retreat when we should be calling for help.
Open the shutters, bring up the shades.
Let the sun reach you.
You like it dark, and dismal and dreary?
It helps you feel miserable, and lost.
Okay.
Before you eat or drink yourself
Into a melancholic frenzy, please
Let the sun come in just a peep,
Maybe a crack tomorrow, a little bit
More each day.
As soon as it meets you full force,
Your Vitamin D will kick in
And please turn off the TV
And the electronic devices.
Now is the time to
Heal, not to
Ignore
Your
Heart.
My prayers are with
you my friend.
We have all
been somewhere
like this and it
is not fun.
Night lay in deep, mournful silence,
Quiet without life’s sweet presence.
Shadows moved brutally monstrous.
Arrows of fear dashed horrendous.
Soon darkness from the earth moved out.
Moon went to its secret hide out.
Sun came on his diurnal shift.
Fun it was to watch snow clouds drift.
ghostly beluga whales
shy and discerning
hide out in coves
manatees giggle their secrets
their calves are frisky and open
dolphins swim toward the boats
making friends with everyone
sharks wait for lunch
hoping to catch a whiff of blood
sheer solitude
hide out in my room
must be very quiet
like a mummy in a tomb
for if i'm loud- holy cow
the door may fling right open
then peace be gone so i will mourn
words that were not spoken
I peer out from my sanctuary of filtered air
Each breath, a gift to the lungs
But just beyond, yellow clouds appear
Courtesy of the flora we all live among
I dare not venture beyond this bubble
into the abyss of the bleak.
Where puffy eyes make vision double
and noses perpetually leak
Though I'm held up in my hide out
My anticipation soars
For a storm I'm told to" ride out"
Will cleanse the land once more
Soon the storm is upon my door
In the form of a wind whipped mist
and that pollen's retreating more and more
as the showers begin to persist
A deluge, now upon the town
Of yellow there's scarcely a trace
with every drop that tumbles down
A particulate gets erased
I step outside, the world to greet
On the wind is the scent of the shore
inhale deeply, air so sweet
I can feel it in every pore
Fragrance of rain contest,Joe Inca,17nov13
I can hear the horses snorting, outside my bedroom window,
Even though it comes, from so many years ago;
Cotton from the cottonwoods flying through the air,
Making whitened dapples on my palomino mare;
The hounds are all out baying, it must be dinner time;
In my tiny little neighborhood, I was never scared of crime;
Family surrounded me, aunts and uncles all around,
It was quiet on our little street, no sirens made a sound;
My cousins and I would play outlaws, and we’d hide out for a day;
Making mighty forts from the fifty tons of hay;
It never really changed much, as I grew up through the years,
And remembering that it’s gone, always brings me close to tears.
(My Parents sold the house I grew up in last year - It still breaks my heart)
CRICKET by ron Arbuthnot
Come list' to what is this our summer night,
our world, it comes alive when dark prevails,
'tis our great mystery, but such delight,
and hidden from the world until light fails.
I often wonder what could make this sound;
it echos through a hot and steaming air;
and why must they hide out, not to be found,
whenever we go looking for them there?
'tis said their song is but a mating call,
and echoed from a file upon their wings,
but to my mind, I think that can't be all
'tis meant to be, there must be other things;
like making us to wonder at their song
when other things in life have gone so wrong.
My favorite place is my room, because it is a library. Shelf, after shelf of books for me to enjoy are there for after a full day of playing.
My room is a art show, lots of drawings and painting, hang on the walls, some of which are my own, while others are famous artist’s.
My room is a cartoonist office, the items I need, to draw cartoons are always there when I want them.
My room is a lounge, a place to rest and relax after a long, hard, and exhausting school day.
My room is an artist’s workshop drawing supplies are always there for me when I’m bored and need something to do.
My room is a secret base, a place for me to hide out whenever I need some alone time.
My room is a school having tools for when I want to learn new and fascinating things outside of school.
My room is a ‘lost and found’ I often find items that I thought I had lost a long time ago.
When inside my room, music can often be heard playing softly in the background, it's just loud enough to be heard, but still relaxing.
My room is a storage unit, a place to store my belongings until I need them again.
As you can probably tell from reading this, my room is a lot of different things to me. And even though everybody’s is, most people treat it like it is just a big pile of bricks and that may be what it’s made of; but a room is more than that, it’s also a friend having what you need when you need it.