Long Hide and seek Poems

Long Hide and seek Poems. Below are the most popular long Hide and seek by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hide and seek poems by poem length and keyword.


It's Amazing What Therapy Brings Up

The mind is an amazing key
With the right guidance words will trigger memories
From anger and rage to double personalities
Emotions will rise like the oceans tides  

Your muscles will twitch with every cellular connection
Hurt, denial abandonment too
Like a looking glass into the past everything is a reflection of you
And not everything you see will be rosy and clean

Tears and overwhelming fears our bodies remember the slightest infraction
Our habits and beliefs play a major role too
Pain and suffering are a big part of what makes us do the things that we do
Without remorse or a second thought we push things to the back of our minds

But all through our lives we can feel something is just not right
We search for those answers like a child playing hide and seek
Sometimes we will get hints and images to help us remember and think
We’ll catch a glimpse from another life as it rises to the top

Like the coming attractions of new movies your mind plays them through the night 
You’ll see your kids, wife and family but as soon as you zoom in to see you
Everything fades to white and suddenly your heart starts beating faster
All the rage and anger start rising up again

Each memory triggers another memory it’s a never ending process 
And it’s not an easy path however when you consider the alternative
And you look at the life you have so far lead it is kind of like neo in the Matrix
Once you take that pill there is no going back. 

You realize the program you’ve been following has been sabotaging you since birth
It’s a negative dysfunction that only supports your inevitable destruction
Debilitating thoughts that are is still playing from long, long ago
These idea’s became part of your core belief and it’s time to let them go!!..

Abusing yourself no longer serves you its time to learn how to heal
Gently open up your heart and allow people to help you feel
As I read my own words I envision a group of healers circling me with compassion
Each one in the there own way helping me to release these toxic fears

I’ve been poisoned by my own family from generation to generation
And I fought for years to stay positive but their abusive habits still affected me deeply
through their yelling, screaming and verbal attacks that numbed me in my years
I am uncertain what saved me but it could’ve been that angel I’d seen holding me dear
© Ron Flatow  Create an image from this poem.
Form:


Crazy

My friends and I had midnight hide and seek
One had to stand by a tree and not peek
In my state of hiding great I was hard to find
My friends decided to just be unkind
They all got together and decided to hunt me down
I first hid in the river near my house and almost drown
When they walk close by me I silently move through the grass
It was very hard to see, but I crawled a long time and almost ran out of gas
Then I heard one say that they were going up and wait by the tree
I had an idea that made a way to make them see
A shadow that ran in the distance thinking that would be
I had my horse pull a little manikin to make them think it was me
My friends took their flashlight and shined it toward it
I thought I had them but one thing was clear they did not fall for it not a bit
They all laugh and started to call out my name
They all asked how the heck did you have time to pull that trick that was so lame
I did not answer so they kept on looking for me, but I was so quick 
Some of my friends started to get really mad and tick
I was a master of doing weird things they all knew what I can do
The night was still young and the grass was collecting dew
I decided to make a distraction once again
To think of it, it would probably make the night end
My friends finally surrounded my tree house
I was quiet, so quiet, more than a mouse
I had some rope in the tree house to make my escape
To distract them I made a loud noise like an ape
The tree that my tree house was in was at least forty feet up
I had some stash in my tree house a drink or two in a cup
My final hour is about to end I did not want my friends to catch me till I got to the tree
I took the rope and tide it on a branch and pushed off and that was the key
I landed on the garage roof and sneaked my way to the tree
My friends knew me to well that they plan things before I could see
They had a fish net ready for me to step into
I thought that was kinda wise and some what like pew
The few feet by the tree there was two of my friends that was ready
Up in the tree they both jumped down and pulled me up in the net fast and steady
They thought they had won, the person had to tag me before I touch tree
She ended up having to get something to stand on to reach me
I swung my weight back and forth till I ended up touching and the game ended
My friends and I were so full of surprises and that is what the game handed
Form: Narrative

Voluntary Unconditional Surrender Woke

Voluntary unconditional surrender woke...,

Viz hitting yours truly,
when yokel egghead doth jinx
whereby ye cannot comprehend figurative
wimpy vainglory, unequivocally, tectonically,
smoldering resentments I stoke,

he doth bare his soul no joke,
no matter insight doth severely challenge
cyber surfing passersby, who attempt
to interpret courtesy
mental torture doth invoke

brutality, difficulty, futility gobbledygook,
heavily taxing your fifty 
plus shades of gray
I apologetically, grudgingly (ha),  
painstakingly, unwittingly... poke,

when mine broadcast 
red by anonymous folk
admittedly poetically trumpeting ambiguity
overlain donned with high falutin cloak
peace be with thee courtesy this bloke.

Electronic date/time stamp permeates
within copious, illustrious,
and porous corpus callosum
hemispheric spongy sinks

mister re: mysterious as Sphinx
validation indubitably backfires
invariably induces loosed
unicellular sized rat finks

cerebral blackout courtesy
one to many drinks,
envision sucker punched by
rockin sockin robots one named

Muhammad Ali t'other Leon Spinks,
or gordian knotted cognitive kinks
bajillion befuddled blinks,
albeit feeble analogy methinks
to render genuine concomitant

convoluted, mangled, twisted... (think
Möbius strip) sentiment
specifically linkedin with
sincere appreciation meant
pertaining to this gent

despite slight trepidation
as faux Geico petsmart agent
forced celibate nun sensical chap
considering entering convent
cloistered existence remaining

days of my life get spent,
where "15 minutes
might save me, not so shabby decent
15% or more on car insurance."

Paraphrase aforementioned Matt Speak
more easily succinctly understood,
versus gibberish as ????????
(i.e. the word Greek spelled in Greek)

essentially long in the tooth fella
self anointed literate sheikh
feeble flattered fungi with
average mushroom shaped physique
trends towards playfulness

in tandem with harmless streak
merely acknowledges how his unique
self expression oft times 
tongue-in-cheek
experiences giddiness at unsolicited
positive feedback versus he/she,

who doth bitingly, flagrantly,
outrageously, witheringly... critique
modesty misunderstood equivalent
of poetic (peekaboo) hide and seek  
to Dani body hook ken find me 
game to reveal me re: hide and seek.

Is It Time Yet

The Lord has time
  He is timed
Down to the last
And this is your first
           And only
Last time
Down to the minute
      ------
He has travel to
      In stretches 
To the last mile
If not for a second
Not even for a minute
Your Salvation is on trial
He controls' the Light
The breath and fresh air
A moment' that we should share
With all
Fore it is His Will
He Wills' it with all 
His might

We should suffer and share
And suffer the morning
       -----
At first crack it will be morning
Then here comes' night
Life loom's minimal
So, let us not give up
       The fight
     That is your right
      ------
O'h, so still, so deep
Yet, and still ocean
             -It be-
Fore life offer's more
      There is more in store
That is indeed some-thing
That you not want to ignore
      ------
From the path
   To the darkness
And back to the Light again
             Time has a menu
       It also has an end
It goes' even faster
If you would just let Him in
      ------
Yet, and still
The ocean has motion
So, spend your time with GOD
                Get an promotion
          Show Him your card
      ------
   Don't be daunted by the path
           ---- Of way-ward emotion
Their are some many thing's
That are not just silly notions'
      ------
From the highest mountain
           At it's high-test peek
You have got to be careful
     Be thankful, be meek
      ------
For it is his guide Nance  that
               For which you seek
           Their is so little time
Time has reached it's peak
     ------
Time to beseech Heaven
From way up in the Sky
              -And-
 Way far from beneath
     As it ream's of Heaven
That is naturally a true belief
      ------
Time just keep on passing by
      ------
Tic-Toc, Tic Toc
      ------
    And justly so....
      ------
Even as we do speak
It's passing you know
      -----
And time seem to just seem
    To pass on by
Just wait till tomorrow
        -And-
And give it another try
      ------
Life has even new
                Implication's
Just try playing hide and seek
     Time goes now where
Your task will be complete
      ------
Just wait till tomorrow
      And watch
Just how fast time fly
    ----
       Jesus Christ
            Is standing by
Fore it was waged upon
          The Cross
      In-order that Ye,
   Shall never die
No matter what the time
No matter what the cost

              GF
Form: Pastoral

Skin Deep

I stare blankly ahead of me;
stare into the cracked soul of the being who used to reflect a smile
- the girl I used to love unconditionally.
That love evades me now.

Where has it gone?

I search desperately, but I fear it is lost forever
- lost forever in the turbulent streams of my --self--consciousness;
lost in the dark recesses of my mind,
in the shrunken cockles of my heart.

I fear I may never find it.

But surely nothing is ever truly gone;
surely it is simply hiding from me
- playing a twisted game of hide and seek - 
or creeping in the shadows of my despair until it is needed again.

I need it now.

Words cannot express how deeply, how utterly, I want to love that person;
to see something of worth or merit in those dark eyes,
to smile back when those pale contours
find their pride again.

But somehow, I just can't see that face the same way.

All I see are lips chapped from saying "no"
- from constantly repenting sins they will soon commit again and again.
All I see are those blank, empty eyes staring back at me
- the cracked soul within beating herself bloody to be freed.

I wish  I could see it - I wish I could set that girl free - but somehow I can't find how.

I want to see it again:
the eyes so full of promise and hope that they blossom,
the smile of a girl who knows the world will keep spinning.
the face of a girl who may be chipping away piece by piece, but is still trying.

But you can't see what just isn't there.

I'd like to think that with enough wishing, that face will return;
that somehow the withering girl - bound by her own will - may find the sun again.
That against all odds, the cracks will begin to fade - the splintered child will heal -
and maybe, eventually, time will turn back and her smile will find its way through the pain.

I'd like to think that miracles are a stones-throw away -  that all you need is a little bit of pixie dust.
I'd like to believe that love does conquer all - much as the world would like to prove otherwise. 
I'd like to believe that, beneath the face of a girl with only bad days left, there hides another girl.

I'd like to believe that inside those soulless eyes,
buried deep within a chasm of depression,
hiding, timid, in the shadows,
there lies another face:

A face that, maybe,
I can love
- or at least smile back at in the mirror.


The Slave's Tale: Across the Atlantic, 1793

Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale


-Across the Atlantic, 1793-


We cry out cursing to our very gods
Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots.
And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed
And setting in the milken sky, is the moon.
                              		
This is the hell that befalls one’s prism
If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism.
The ways of mokala are not our ways
And their days are never like our days. 

Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell
As it would guide souls to wisely dwell:
Now permit me continue with my sad tale
Before we are rapidly placed on sale.

For here I stand under an alien sun
Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung
Battered, chained to the queue’s label 
As humans are placed on the auction table.

Here I proceed with my tale feeding you
With my pain, pains of brothers on cue
As they are sold off like fresh tobacco
Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero.

                            ***

 Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old
The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold
Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm
Beating us to yield forth into realism.

Light strained in through rat nibbled openings
Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins 
Vicious to the point of abandonment
Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement.

Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked
East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked-
Acquainting itself with the crampy hold
Taking in every detail for any bolt.

In long prodigious rows we humans lay
Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say
Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks.
They now submissive despite the reeks. 

A cough here, a huff there. A groan here
A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near.
A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling
There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling. 

That pungent stench, from decaying beings:
Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings.
I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained
My stomach flaring to throw up content.

And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies
Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies.
Tossing about, screeching on their suppers-
Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs.

And my groans joined the choir, a dirge
Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge
Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy- 
And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!
© NGT NGT  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Narrative

Bombing Without Mercy

When America bombed Hiroshima our city,


Three days later without pity,

They bombed Nagasaki and ruined the city.

Killed at least 200,000 people.




It was a normal day.

We were all going either to work, or school.

That day, I was very excited because

I was chosen to be “it” for hide and seek.

I was counting down, when I saw

A big ball of light that came out of the sky.

It was getting larger and brighter.

Warmer and louder.

And all of a sudden,

Boom!!!

I felt like I was falling…….




The school building was crashing under my feet.

I heard kids crying,

And I felt pain and blood all over my body.

I felt somebody carrying me.

A soldier………

He carried me to a safe place,

Where I could be healed.

But, there wasn’t really any safe place.




Being carried around,

I saw dead bodies all around me,

Burned to ashes.

Those who were still alive,

Were screaming for help.

And more…….screaming from pain.

I saw a mother who was trying to help her kid.

The kid was screaming his throat out for his mother.

“Mom, Help me….. Mom where are you”

The fire was eating him without mercy.

Not able to help him,

 His mother cried and said

“Sorry…..I am so sorry. I am a bad mother”………







The city that was 15 minutes ago full of life.

Was now full of nothing but ashes and a RED ocean.

You couldn’t recognize people anymore,

Nor buildings.

Those who where still alive were wishing to die.

They were hungry and thirsty.

 And they were ALL in pain.

Yet, there wasn’t really any body to help them,

Nor any food or water to drink and eat.




After about 6 hours,

It started to rain.

The rain was as dark as the dead bodies,

But nobody cared.

They were so happy that they finally found water.

They didn’t know it contains acid.

Moreover,

They didn’t care.

They drank and drank.

And people started to get poisoned,

And died.

August 1945.

When my people lost their life.

A day that can’t be forgotten.

Nor can have another discussion.

August 6, 1945.

When America bombed Hiroshima our city.

Three days later without pity,

They bombed Nagasaki and ruined the city.

Killed at least 200,000 people,

And ended the war.

With a big smile and a party,

More with no heart.
© Salma Said  Create an image from this poem.
Form:

Sweet Childhood Memories

"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
                       Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge (from his writings)

I fondly recall the innocent days of my childhood,
playing hide and seek among the backyard boxwood,
and life as I knew it then was sweet and good.
              Country life was always fun.

I treasured Christmas tree lights glowing in the dark,
family gatherings each summer in Audubon Park.
In my younger years I was as carefree as a lark,
                enjoying days in the sun.

With my little sister beside me we made mud pies
and didn't see anything wrong with little white lies
or that dancing like ballerinas in the rain wasn't wise
            until our pirouettes were done.

I enjoyed having an allowance that I could spend
and sharing whispered secrets with my best friend,
wishing our playing time outside would never end.
                    How I loved to run!

In sweet memories I recall swimming in the lake,
helping Mom in the kitchen when she would bake,
and eating more icing than I had put on the cake.
             Having fights with a water gun.

How wonderful were my days spent as a child,
Dad called me a tomboy because I was a bit wild.
I was happy and content with life, always beguiled
               with everything I'd done.

My braided pigtails were yanked by a silly boy in school.
He giggled like an idiot thinking he was so cool,
til I fought back with a fist and called him a 'stupid fool.'
                   That battle I had won.

If memory serves me well, I remember not liking boys.
Always wanting their way and making too much noise.
I preferred playing house with many of my stuffed toys.
                 Boys were creatures to shun.

I was very competitive and wanted to win every race,
and didn't care much in those days about ladylike grace.
I recall being angry with myself for falling flat on my face
                   and not talking to anyone.

I've photos of me since I was born and it's plain to see
that my childhood was a very delightful time for me.
With a loving family like mine, I grew up quite esprit.
                  I love them all, a ton!




October 8, 2022 - A Constance La France Contest
Writing Challenge - Past Memories - "T" Forms Poetry

TEMPER

TEMPER
My love, 
I am pained by my pain which leaves me in pains
Oh!. 


Have you not drank your fill
Of my will's will? 
The tug ever drains me

Temper! 
Temper my love! 
Are you listening? 

My mind is a mine
Mined In fields 
Of my faces 

Oh! 
By whom you ask? 
Oh! Please you know better of my foes than I can number my woes

I seek a treaty of decorum 
For I hide and seek, 
which glances to give at every waking morn

It tires me
Temper heed! 
It tires me. 

I am stuck in a bowl.. 
No a bowling alley 
Sorry, I went bowling.. 

Temper dearie.,
See as my sanity flees from me 
With every whistling intake

You are priceless to a fault
Sorry.. A point
I have drunk dry of my purchasing power of you

My minds bank seems bankrupt
Please! 
Do not loan them in. 

Whom you ask? 
Your offspring 
You play my sanity as they delay my insanity 

Imagine the pain of injecting you in
Yet I commit a felony if I let you shine
Besides giving  me an audience, 


You get me an audience 
They differ in purpose
One to hear, one to leer


Nip you in the bud they say
But I really love, 
The psychopathy you give

The satisfaction of deride
The aloofness of my prey
As they are caught In my web

Listen!, do you hear
The drums of their quaking despair
The loss of steering which is lost

But is still in their hands
But my deride is far from the labeled cups
Of despair 

My weakness  unnerves my being 
Their weakness display calms me
Why? 

Cannot let it show
They toy with the truth
Seen alot of their cinemas of toy

Bottom line
Their pain for my pain
Loss of steer for my steering

Insanity is a constant in all
But! 
It's levels varies for all

So I seem mad 
Am I? 
Maybe mad indeed I am

It's all your fault
I can't withdraw, the symptoms 
Are too pathetic 

I need this job 
You can't throw me a cliff  hanger
Of your depature


The adrenaline pumps to my mind
Blemishes me with deadly wits of control 
What you define as manipulation 

The edge It gives
Similar to an addiction 
Is the key to my survival

... So we die here, right? 
I am hooked to you with a line and fingerlings
I hope a good shark snaps me 

I really want to quit you
My sweet addiction 
But you are just too sweet. 


CUB.J.PRINTS

Edgar and Me

© Ben Burton 2-20-2015

If I were Edgar Allan Poe
I'd been dead many years ago


Two score, no more, the poet bore
Before rejoining his Lenore


Reflections now, from sixty-five
I'm wondering how I have survived


For, having shared his mental state
Induced abuse which bordered crazed


In looking back it seems most strange
The lucid fundamental change


Created in a child of eight
Whose kinship must have been innate


With one long dead, a hundred years
Before that smack upon my rear


I learned his poems, all were gems
And thought that rhyme was named for him


Read "Gold Bug" and "The Telltale Heart"
Thence, for some time I feared the dark


And as I read, I knew that I
Had, even then, the skills to write


Though modesty forbade the act
Far less than the assured attack


For none dare read foul poetry
In place of chase or hide and seek


When unassigned, a travesty
I wrote in fits, but just for me


"The Raven" and "The Bells" bequeathed
A rhythm beat of hell in me


Too natural to be mere chance
My mind would rhyme through happenstance


With no attempts to join the breed
Through school or university


I, nonetheless, read works aloud
In hopes their authors had been proud


Won competitions far and wide
Unsatisfied, the words weren't mine


And yet, I kept my pen at bay
Years past my graduation day


Jack Daniels opened up my soul
To take me on poetic strolls


Not unlike Poe who oft consumed
Whilst making sojourns to the tomb


I hungered to make words my own
Through blank verse, limerick, or song


Though mostly as a barroom trick
Which oft'times made the pick-up quick


But then, at length, I followed Poe
Officially gave up the ghost


By then I'd fifteen years surpassed
The forty Poe logged for his last


But providence did intervene
Man-made machine, propitiously


Brought back to life that muscle which
Once stilled, rarely renews its tick


My second life was born to write
To spill it all, let nothing slide


And, on ten years my pen creates
Whatever my odd mind dictates


With second chance, I wish to praise
The first man whom within me raised


A passion known as poetry
Though I am light years from his league


We met in El Dorado's dream
Two kindred souls, Edgar and me
© Ben Burton  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Rhyme

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