Those summer nights of hide and seek where we were willing quarry,
our efforts to make curfew were too often dilatory.
Our neighborhood adventures stretched out under the stars—
those shadowed venturings abroad, hiding behind cars,
in barrow pits or hedges, darting through the dark,
avoiding passing car lights and the dog’s insistent bark.
Bigger kids the kingpins of this nightly sequestering,
lying still as death with our fears of capture festering.
That titillating strain of remaining undetected,
somehow in our memories has made us more connected.
How we so consistently lay spread out on the ground
cowering, but secretly hoping to be found
by that special someone who, in our pre-teen flush
even then, in passing, could bring about our blush.
All this search and parrying that we called summer games
very soon would fill our lives called by other names.
Hide and Seek
Ollie ollie oxen, all in free.
No one has discovered me.
I’m sealed up in my hiding place
getting ready, just in case.
I am not easy to figure out,
but if you do, without a doubt,
I’ll be right here in the middle,
once that you have solved the riddle.
But ollie ollie oxen, all in free.
First you have to come find me.
The NaPoWrMo prompt today was “middle.”
She enters my hideout and calls it her own.
Now I’ll have to move on, for my cover is blown.
I try to go deeper into my lair
but still she follows, finding me there.
I cannot escape her. She has all my keys.
She blows through my memory like a fine breeze,
usurping my details to make them her own
so I can’t reclaim them, wherever they’ve blown.
From a full-body mirror, she stares back at me.
My elbow’s her elbow. My knee is her knee.
She alters my hairdo and rouges my cheeks.
She searches my memory, looking for leaks,
then piles the lost parts up in her poems,
through her underground railroad, gives them new homes.
When I see myself spread out here in these pages,
some private part of me protests and rages,
but she doesn’t listen. She finds me too fussy.
She leaves herself open, the ungrateful hussy.
Does she not realize that it is me
who has made her whatever she’s turned out to be?
She should listen more closely when I say to stop.
Allow me to be her poetry cop.
But she doesn’t mind. She says what she wishes.
She dines out on me and leaves me with the dishes!
The prompt word today was “hideout.”
With men everywhere in the house tiling, it was inevitable that the doors would have to come down. I found my bedroom door “hanging out” in the living room, complete with all its retablos and wall collages. One oversight on my part. I later “saved” all of the art pieces just as they were ready to cut the bottom of the door off with them still intact. Not your usual Thursday Door, I’ll submit!
This group of efficient young men descended upon my house just as all of the tile layers were getting ready to go home and made short work of removing what doors hadn’t already been removed and cutting the bottoms off 13 doors to accommodate the higher porcelain tiles. And two of the doors were metal! Amazing.