Hiding Places

When a prompt for a “Hiding Poem” comes at me early in the morning, I’m baffled for a moment. I’m not a morning person to start with—no pun intended, which means that throwing actual creative thoughts at me at 8 am isn’t exactly inspiring.

My night owl tendencies keep churning out those lovely little brain chemicals that induce grogginess, if not slumber. On the off chance that Robert might have called off today’s participation requirement for his challenge, I popped over to Poetic Asides to peek at the daily headline.

Nope, no such luck for those of us who didn’t get into bed at a “reasonable” hour. Instead, he was ever-so perky—can a guy be perky? He’d gotten up early, posted his perky challenge prompt and then left before the onslaught of poets gone mad with the power of the written word. None of these writers seemed to be hiding today. That much was certain.

I made a note of the prompt and escaped, hoping against all hope that I could come up with something before the end of the day. In my continuing befuddled state, I slogged over to Robert’s other blog “My Name is Not Bob” to check out the daily task for his Author’s Platform Development Challenge. Eureka! God had smiled on me.

Today’s task was something that I already do on a regular basis. I was ahead for the day. I posted my compliance after quickly doing as requested and escaped again. I’ll go back later to do a couple of additional compliance bits.

After pondering the problem of hiding poems while chugging decaf—I know, but I can have caffeine—I got down to dealing with verse for the morning. Once started, I didn’t have much difficulty. I think I had to convince myself that having my eyes open and brain functioning was an okay thing to do at that hour. Well, you see… nevermind, off topic. Must stay focused.

Here are my posted poems concerning aspects of HIDING. Enjoy the trip through my morning thoughts. Feel free to leave a comment about your own idea of hiding or on a night owl’s foggy morning.

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, ever-more complex world.

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.

Twilight Idea

It wafts, this thought

That titillates

The mind; one toe

In the present,

The rest only

A dim specter,

Tantalizing

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.

© Claudette J. Young 2012

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