Long Hideouts Poems
Long Hideouts Poems. Below are the most popular long Hideouts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hideouts poems by poem length and keyword.
I haven't written anything for a while
I really need a blues-rocker for an ep I have planned.
The music is pretty much already there with it being blues/rock.
Written while nervously hungover. I suppose it comes from a dark place... Enjoy.
Nietzsche helped me out with those last two lines, which are, of course, reoccurring.
Feedback appreciated.
______________________
Every Word Is A Mask
I cannot part the sea, or even turn the tides
I know you will not listen to me with my history of lies
let the valleys hold my tears
should the mountain prick my eyes
I think it should be said, we could have stolen more
modesty was never validated, not now n' ne'er before
avarice, tried and tested
tartuffery has no allure
should Miss Andre get married?
we should have taken more
opinions are hideouts, ev'ry word is a mask
'does not belong to me, I disown it, insist n' I will retract
take back the love that was lent
salvation is under attack
opinions are hideouts and
every word is a mask
_______________________________
Rightly.
If you laugh at anger and allow some pride,
You may not be quite the same person inside;
If you ignore a little greed, just to yourself,
And inspect sloth in worship as an act of self,
You’ll become lazy more often than you like,
Expecting no consequences, no laborious hike,
Back to work, concern and effortful interest,
Where you do your utmost to do your best.
If you pass over that extra chocolate drop,
And let your greed compensate for your flop,
To account for the sadness in your life and day,
Then you’ll only put on weight to dribble away;
If you shine on gluttonous outbursts as good,
You’ll only validate for your happiness, food,
Which can’t love you or elevate you into meaning,
Because it’s got no warmth, presence or feeling.
And if you have sex with too many friends, people,
You’ll never see them as sensitive and capable,
You’ll never relate to them as you could or should,
And sex will become purely physical, crude,
Which will make you jealous of others’ sex lives,
Envious of their relationships, hideouts and dives,
And anger will devour your mind to place and stake,
Everybody else as wrong, oh for goodness sake!
“Wilderness has at once a mysterious beauty and horror entwined within. Human mind also harbours wild urges and benign emotions. When wild urges take precedence, life becomes an untamed jungle” ~ By Poet
The jungle sprawls hauntingly scary
Where light and shadows together dance.
Here the wind howls fiercely
Thickets and thistles grow wild
Creepers twine around trees.
Branches of trees droop in disarray,
Blocking the paths and obstructing entry.
Under jagged rocks and holes,
Snakes crawl and rodents flee.
The ominous hoot of owls rent the air.
The rocky boulders in dim light look so monstrous.
Leopards and tigers roam free looking for prey
Their carnivores urge, hidden under their soft paws.
From hideouts, raptors and beasts come to the open.
Screeching bats keep flying overhead
Here in this dark grove, light seldom falls
There is a morbid silence, interrupted
By howls of predators and screams of the preyed.
Is not our world too, a wild untamed jungle
Where wolves roam ready to pounce, ready to strike!
emptying of the mind into the ether
contained reverberations
sent suddenly skywards
firmly rejected by gravity
bounce back for the haunting
we live on with the fallout
truth ruins the illusion of necessity
spittle ruins the illusion of beauty
you can't rewrite ripples caused by history
only bury the dead on loop
then repeat the mantra of moving on
there is beauty still
in the bright light before nothing
that lingers on the retina
becoming layers
light that needs slivers of insanity
to fill the gaps
but gaps to separate the insanity
nothing is new
as evidenced by what is etched in stone
coffee cup stains
create self made crowns
in those faraway hideouts
the uncut planners
never lose a drop
or burn their tongue
their hum murmurs on
in the perfect world they build
everyone else gives their all
to fulfil whatever dream
they need to be sold
in the inner workings of every dome
rest the chorus of lives that built it
silently watching on
mouths agape
bridges shatter between downcast eyes
everything wriggles
finds its way
once again to a finish line
for a fresh wave
as inevitable as the first
in this thirst for glory
in every direction lay the fallen
leaving spaces
for the glorious mourners
to preach their refrains
eventually no fight or song will be left
only moistened air descending
kissing your cheek
light and sound fade
atop mountains
thoughts of mortality are shushed
legacy leaving its mark
to echo into a final slowed motion silence
Growing up in Podunk Missouri,
meant that we had the freedom to roam.
Up and down rivers and wooded hills,
those places that we called home.
Picked berries, peaches, plums, and cherries,
and at least the ones that didn’t fill our bellies.
Mom would turn them into some mighty fine,
pies, cookies, canned juices and jellies.
Morel mushrooms in the frying pan,
could find them after a soft spring rain.
Serve with fried Catfish rolled in cornmeal,
and tomatoes, ‘taters, and onions.
Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, and possums,
our blue tick was ready and able.
With the help of a marksman’s keen eyes,
it was easy to fill the supper table.
We built hideouts from leaves, weeds, and twigs,
out beneath a weeping willow’s green.
We laid with our backs against soft grass ,
wishing on each falling star we’d seen.
The screeches and hoots of a night owl,
watching us capture fireflies in jars.
The call of goatsuckers and whippoorwills,
filled our summer nights beneath the stars.
Wildflowers covered all the ditches,
that ran down our dusty gravel road.
Wood-post fences cradled new-born calves,
or protected crops that had just been sowed.
Some nights we ate around a campfire,
had no white tablecloth with frilly lace.
Beggar’s lice clinging tight to our jeans,
and red mosquito whelps on our face.
Soles of shoeless feet tough as leathe,r
as up and down those hills we would climb.
Moving deeper into life’s adventure,
we tried to outrun the passing time.
Those joyous years there in the woodlands,
before the future took us away.
Left me with many fond memories,
of that happy childhood yesterday.
Sorry, no graceful way to say his....
Your friends and family under green grass lie.
Body filled with odious pride, the hand of death shall pass you by?
As self inflicted hideouts lie.
No adoring prince, family nor money can save you.
Not even your adoring pet can stop death in its tracks,
That Reaper wants your back,
He deals you the final smack.
The younger ones with vigor, without a a pain run to the beach!
And stare at you in piteous, disgusting wonder.
Not knowing death takes even the younger.
Tearing family souls asunder.
This is not the kind of poem, to be popular here!
I care not for endless laughers and frivolity.
Raise the souls high, not in lowlife joviality,
Before death gets the best of me.
The angst true patriots experience.
America in a state of idiotice somnanabulance!
Doing the Wuhan death dance.
While governent overlords give you a death vaccine and you prance?
6/20/2021
When I was very young
All I really wanted
To be was an Indian.
My mother always read to me -
Stories of fairies and elves,
Of princesses and ogres, witches,
And brownies who did good deeds.
Poems, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”,
“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”,
And “The Sugar Plum Tree”.
Books, Alice in Wonderland,
The Little Colonel stories, and
The Five Little Peppers.
(I wonder if my grandchildren
Have ever heard of any of the
Old-fashioned stories and poems
Which were all magic to me.)
But, most of all, I loved
Longfellow’s poem Hiawatha.
“By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining deep sea water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis…”
I hear my mother almost singing
Those magical words from
“The Childhood of Hiawatha”.
I could see Hiawatha growing up
And learning Indian ways in
The woodlands of his youth.
I wanted to live in the woods,
To learn to talk with animals
And know their secrets.
I wanted to wear moccasins
And build a birch bark canoe!
One Christmas my brother got
A cowboy suit and hat and holsters,
But I, wonder of wonders,
Got a “real” Indian dress
With designs of tiny beads,
A fringe on the skirt,
And a headband with feathers!
I told my friends I was part Indian,
That my great grandmother
Was a real live Indian!
When it got back to my mother
She just said, “What stories you tell!”
Although I outgrew the dress,
The dream stayed with me
Throughout my childhood -
Sort of wishful thinking.
I always wanted to
Be close to nature.
Much of my childhood
I spent by myself, somewhat
Of a loner, climbing trees,
Making hideouts in the woods,
Walking in streams
To “cover my tracks”.
That “Indian child” I was
Still lives on in the
Recesses of my memory.
Maybe that’s why now, “grown up”,
I love walking in the woods
Or foraging by the ocean,
Why Stalking the Wild Asparagus
Is one of my favorite books,
Why I love picking wild blueberries
And grapes and making jam, or
Digging for clams and mussels.
Why I HAD to experiment with cooking
Slipper shells and making
Seaweed pudding and “Sumac-ade”.
Of course, I realize,
As well as anyone, that
The life of an Indian was not
As idyllic as I had once believed,
But, even now, after
All these years have passed,
It appears that
My “inner Indian”
Is alive and well and
Living on Martha’s Vineyard!
They sit on the thrones..
Yes, they sit higher than God,
But call themselves servants..
Of whom?
Ego or obsession?
Or some kind of mental sickness?...
They proclaimed themselves leaders.
But good followers, they never could be.
'Little knowledge is dangerous...' it's been said.
Sure, they are a danger to the human race.
They are the very roots of sufferings and pains.
Their blind faith upon thyself is masked as fervent worshippers of the great one.
Who's the great, is it not around us, among us?
But none can be greater than the life gifted to each and every one...
Wake up human fellows, question these rulers...these guardians..these dark Angels..
At every point of your life..
It's like hide and seek...if you discover my hideouts, you catch me.
Come on, look for me..know who I am
And what I am...
I know the rule of the game...
Once denounced you will know me, as I come out of my self made hideouts and masquerades..
Till then bad luck I will lead the game...
I hold your nose..check!
Dance with me, say what I say, do what I do.
You cannot lead yourself...you are a follower..
Or you're ME..??????
© Sunita U D Palawon (monologue)
I’ve never really wished
To be a child again.
For growing up’s too hard
To even put to pen.
But somehow, in my mind,
The difficulties fade.
The memories that linger
Are joys that childhood made.
The endless summer days
Making hideouts, climbing trees,
Spying on the neighbor boys,
Or hanging by my knees!
I breathe the stuffy August air,
Sit dreaming by a stream
That ripples over roots and stones
Between two banks of green.
When the days were really hot
Our bathing suits we wore
To squirt our friends with hoses
‘Til Mother said, “No more!”
On other days we put on plays
And practiced grown-up looks
And acted out the characters
We’d read about in books
In spring we wore our roller skates
That clamped on shoes with keys.
We rumbled down the sidewalks
And often skinned our knees!
We went to church on Easter -
White gloves we’d surely use -
With brand-new suits or dresses,
Flowery hats and patent shoes!
Winter was a great time
For skating on the pond,
Our toes and fingers frozen,
But how we whirled around!
And now the scene has changed
To a hill that’s thick with snow.
And now I’m flying on a sled
To see how fast I’ll go!
I still recall the smell of
Bonfires smoky in the fall.
Then Halloween, Thanksgiving –
Such excitement I recall!
I’m happy where I am today.
I’ve taken what life brings,
But memories can take me back,
And nostalgia ever clings.
Traveling through the back roads
I find I still remember the way
to the old hideouts and pathways
that brought us here to today.
Those old winding tree lined paths
flow so easilg through the woods.
with a herd of deer off to the right
some wild turkeys on the left.
The sky is clouded gray and threatening
and a sudden whisk of cold
mixes with wind and trickled rain
force the lights and wipers on.
The deer continue to graze peacefully undisturbed
looking up only now and tgen
staying a good distance back
avoiding the threat and danger of the car.
These last few deserted roads remain
happily unchanged barely paved
despite the increase and
altering of traffic patterns.
Along the canal
the water rises high
almost obscuring the bridge
as I cross over.
Out of the woods
the last hint of solitude and peace now disappears
lost in the lights of the highway
and a staggering flow of cars and traffic
as the back roads sadly disappear.