"funnels" poems
In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.
Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,
how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.
In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******
Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,
so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
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The neighborhood hawk glides
gracefully over the dead ground.
He soars through the smoke of
my morning cigarette
My burning reminder of regret.
The hawk feels no anguish in the
haze
My haze.
That funnels above the dead ground.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:07 PM UTC
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
The numerous Tornado’s that roared
The frightening funnels that I saw
Being a Tornado chaser
I needed to be near
Death wasn’t a thought, but preserver becoming fear
I remembered being my car and suddenly being pulled into the funnel of a Tornado
I was hurled high into the sky and moving around the Tornado as if it was an amusement ride
As I was swirling around
I was above the storm and I knew I was Heaven bound
I smiled seeing the mighty warmth of the sun and clouds all gathering in stating, “It is done”
My heart quickly pounded and my blood rushed
Suddenly I felt flushed
I knew my spirit was on target for Heaven
My car abruptly dropped down
My soon would be my eternal bound
Immediately, the car was on a bull’s eye towards earth
My flesh made no sound and quietly my spirit descended from being all around
The Tornado being God’s call, and the remembrance in Standing Tall as I am the God for all.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
RINGS of iron gray smoke; a woman's steel face ... looking ... looking.
Funnels of an ocean liner negotiating a fog night; pouring a taffy mass down the wind; layers of soot on the top deck; a taffrail ... and a woman's steel face ... looking ... looking.
Cliffs challenge ****** sudden arcs form on a gull's wing in the storm's vortex; miles of white horses plow through a stony beach; stars, clear sky, and everywhere free climbers calling; and a woman's steel face ... looking ... looking ...
1.7k
Skin dislodged
A bone in the wrong place
Just the wrong size
Can't we see what's underneath?
Cold, empty air
Wind winds through the tunnels
And here and there and there
You can see the ****** funnels
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 9:17 PM UTC
There were furrows in his brow
Kept his music much too loud
Paper skin and paper grin
To his chest, a heart we'll pin
Veins are ****** tunnels
A carbonated bottle
A lump love funnels,
Bubbles over, feeling sober
Dismal future, no four leaf clover
Afraid to search around for a light
Afraid to wait around and see that it might
Not be all that worthwhile
He lived to take flight
Dark crimson in a ****** vile
Injection withdrawn, thin paper smile
Down below,
Ground is coming near
And before the pavement
A vision was clear
A final thought rummaged through his brain
A blissful blow, a final aching pain
A florescent concussion, an angelic cheer
A temporary life he lived
For it was not death he feared
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.
The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.
The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.
But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.
The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.
He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.
His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.
‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.
His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
Somewhere out there.
Spiders build non ending webs.
Funnels and tunnels, no trains passing through.
They scuttle as they dash through the hearth.
Where the fires of the hearts of queens once burned.
Madame summons's her lady in waiting.
To sweep away the creature she's hating.
Her ladyship is really posh.
She's eaten many you know.
Tells the world they're scrumptious nosh.
The ladies maid, collects her captured trophies in a trinket box.
Stashes them in the drawer.
The one where milady keeps her socks and hoes.
Even the hankies to wipe her regal nose.
But, once in the bluest of moons,
She melts some chocolate on a spoon.
Into the runny chocolate, the leggy hairy creatures get dunked.
Those spiders dipped in chocolate,they're tasting really great.
A little bit of protein to satisfy the queen.
Her delicacy.
Apparently!
(C) LIVVI
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
I promised you i’d plant those **** pink roses but
that Sunday morning that you broke me in ways
even my best friend didn’t think was possible
and i realized it was probably a good thing
that the whole thing was a production of strictly pretend;
a play, a script, an authors first mistake-
that day, i clipped every last flower
off and set the remains in a little drawer
with shards of glass i broke in my sleep
because i loved you every single day
despite my
i’m over you i’m over you i’m over you
that i repeated with the foolish hope of
convincing somebody that air still funnels through my lungs
and it’s come to my attention that
i’d pick my head over my heart but that is only
because i am a toy car abandoned by every single
pair of hands to wind it up and let it go
And yes, I will reduce my emotions to dust or
enlarge them in full zoom but
I cannot get over that fact that the clementines rotted in front
of us and
you devoured the part of me that let my heart reign over
my head and snapped the key to my rib cage;
you promised you would keep it safe and
you lied
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
"When your turn finally arrives," he says,
"you'll understand why the wait was really long.
You'll see why the storm was rough and strong,
Why the Ocean was endless, the sails torn.
When your turn finally arrives, every tree in this jungle will make sense.
You'll appreciate each wound and scratch for the beautiful scars they are.
You'll finally see adventures in your endless journey.
You'll realize that the burdens and weight you couldn't bear
were merely the crucible where your strength was forged.
The wrecking heartbreaks, the tears you've shed,
You'll learn chiseled your spirit and your character made.
When your turn finally arrives, you'll understand that
The purpose of going through the deepest caverns and the darkest tunnels
was to unearth hidden gems, like precious pearls in funnels.
When your turn arrives, amid life's daily stumbles,
You'll discover that each loss you picked up along the way
collectively turned you into the masterpiece that you are."
Oct 5, 2023
Oct 5, 2023 at 5:40 AM UTC
hurry boy, don't doze
etch the words before they perish
as the situation once again alters
coiling around your wrist
tugging you to that place
sleep every moment
dwelling in the blankets
soaking in that stale security
false impressions attached/removed
like velcro ripping in the silence
masks on masks on masks on masks on masks on
could spend days pruning in the seabed of potential
while the salt collects on my eyelashes and the days vanish like eons
there are days where the stillness in me quakes my feet
into the fervor of rabbit under moving tire and
I pound the walls for a train to pass and shake the foundation
but the tracks are too far away now, and the stillness creeps
dust collects on the fan blades, then the plastic grating, then the intake
the thing rattles all night now; loose ***** in the front
hardly a substitute for that rumble in your dreams
from an archer daniel's car rushing by at four
the bed is a lot better at this place though
king size, though I'd rather be in california
where the water is warm and the memories catch your falls
I've never been there and the idea is always better than the outcome
kicking sand like a beach bully *** flexing in strut
sun burns within seconds of shirtless self-reveals
the salt is being washed off of the cars
from an illinois winter that the plow conquered to the dismay of
the kids down the block who still waited
at dawn for the diesel yellow groan
the heat is swelling in the season
chirps return with the sting
of rolled up passenger windows
magnifying the clean white light
ninety-eight million miles marched
to a single point on a pale dot
burning that poor gal's cheek
but the medicinal effects
of the smooch are more than known
to generations of the summer awakened,
free-falling, reality born.
here we are again with showers and flowers,
here we are again with cyclones in the alley,
here we are again with cocoons and buffoons,
here we are again with milk in the valley.
this heart pumps as the snow goes rising
to the funnels and pillars east-stretched
where the baby boomers buy plots and
the love begins to reach for an even share.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
out in the mountains,
when my feet are pressed and purpled
from pushing the world to roll her callused breast,
then each breath, deservingly,
funnels the friction into fire.
but here our milk flesh thumbs
flick the ridges of the flint
and through trees we **** a Bic
just to exhale flame again.
oh-two deprived at altitude
or getting high with all the dudes
you’d count them as two trails that lead to the same place
but that’s just what the map says.
neurotransmitter math has
sold, by weight, the dopamine
wrapped like gods great gift
in threads of nervous lace
and you forget that different paths
never summit the same
if steep, or shallow, the peak can be
epiphany pleasure or just good ****
in green pill bottles, they trap the trees
and plastic cages hang on me
when the weight of our minds
bends our necks towards the asbestos sky
where porous plains of ceiling tile
have us counting holes in the light
so you see my disappointment,
when you were too ****** or drunk or cold
and said it would be better
if we just went inside
as we circled up the stairwell
you stepped easily on plaster pieces
of white ceiling that had fallen to concrete
perhaps it is from fear
that some can find a comfort
having heavens built so brittle
that they crumble within reach
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:38 AM UTC
The radio counts miles in static and song.
Three hours of worn-out melodies
and a preacher selling salvation
for nineteen ninety-five, shipping included.
A beautiful billboard lawyer leans forward,
red lips inviting, blouse open
like she's selling more than legal services.
Need a lawyer? Janet Stone will fight for what you deserve.
Justice comes easy, she claims, just call the number.
Time rolls under my tires
like my mother's worn rosary beads.
Exit signs listing faded towns I knew,
before I stopped coming home
for Christmases, birthdays, funerals:
Millersville, Cedar Falls, etc.
The rich green hills fold and unfold
just as I remember,
etched and carved
by this black ribbon highway
that funnels me home.
Half an inch of cold coffee left,
the rest bleeding my white shirt brown.
Twenty miles to the Pine Fork Gas-N-Go
the billboard says,
but I'm tired,
running late,
and wearing my mistake.
Mile marker 247:
I'm thirty minutes from faces
that will ask about my life
like it's the weather.
Safe. Surface. Polite. Prying.
Nothing that acknowledges what we both know.
The only reason I would come back home
is currently at Blackstone Mortuary Services Inc.
Wearing her Sunday best.
Clutching her rosary beads.
Eyes closed.
Lying still.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 9:01 AM UTC
An army of little girls
poke dandelions through the skin of
every man who could hurt them.
Blades in a briefcase, hide several
between their legs
until the wetness chafes her
right where the dark funnels
stop. The big people and his crosses –
armpits made of porcelain then dug
into little girl gardens,
a meadow of dandelions scrawled:
we do not give you ourselves
but we will give you our blood.
Their masculine fingers could not win,
too harsh for bald skinned little girls.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
hot blood, red cheeks, burnt lips, and smoke incapacitating my lungs, i heave through the fire in my home
clouded judgement, feelings of hopelessness, i run through my home to find a place where i can feel safe to open my eyes
a place where my lungs are free to experience breath without tentative hesitance, where my senses are in allignment
i search for hydration, for a holistic cleansing of the soul, for a second chance to reclaim this home i have been so careless in
when i finally see myself
my sense of sight funnels in and out
has my skin always looked like this?
who let me destroy my home?
there is nothing to put out the fire
my skin revolts against my bone as my pulse laryngeally stabs me in protest of my reluctance to acknowledge the pain
i am ready to give into the flames, to be a soul of light
to transcend the blazing in my heart, in my veins, in my brainwaves, to go through this life, with open, kindled eyes, a fiery spirit
lungs of feathers
making it obvious that i have scars,
because every aspect of my being,
burns.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:09 AM UTC
The white billowing funnels of purely antiquated fluff rolled by like wind in a lazy sail. The syrupy cirrus disasters dripped heaven unto passersby. Everyone watched and waited, but not a wretch took even an instant to notice that a malevolent tempest brewed south. Mortals went on with their days, hell's revenants. Constructing sin and suchwhat. All was lost before it had begun. God's master plan. Flaming meteorites launched spectacular displays of warfare and catastrophe in the firmament. Corpses showered the celestial Terra for years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. Only when hot hate ran through the streets of humanity was it finally forgotten. Over and done with. Then a new day began, a purplish-pinkish day, complete with stiff greens, cool blues, posh reds, and the occasional stygian black. A conclusion before there was even a conception. There was a sky.
And suddenly, the sky made love.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
Glorious day.
The Sabbath day.
Saw my little daughter.
Probably shouldn't oughta.
Cost me dear.
Gave her payday loan.
On the way home peeped over the bridge.
Down in the docks magnificence stood.
A queen and traveller.
As mountains in dock.
Waiting until the bells on the clock.
Decree it's time to leave.
To set them free.
To rove the seas again.
Tall and silent they stood no evidence of kerfuffle.
No brass bands just silence.
As cavernous funnels scratched the sky.
The queen had funnels.
The traveller none.
Appear like a tower block on the dock.
The Venturer was truly a giant.
Queen Mary minimal in some strange comparison.
Beautiful and elegant in their domain.
Got home.
Sat on my bed.
Delighted as my stomach was fed.
Looked out of my room.
Over the gardens.
Up the path.
More sunflowers .
Than were there before.
Many more blooming like solar majesty.
Queen of the gardens v queens of the sea.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
The world I walk through is a deep cavern
filled with cool air and brilliant water.
I jump from puddle to puddle weeping
at all the wonders my little chasm is filled with.
My feet carry me in syncopated skips to those small funnels
where the invisible breeze tickles and sings in my ears.
My breath gives me pause to reminisce on how lucky I am.
These various rhythms of enthralling fascinations
leave lasting echoes that reverberate off my cavernous edge
feeding upon one another,
until the cacophony is too painful for me to ignore.
I must rest until it passes.
...Walking with you
...that steady pace you take...
resonates against my walls.
All I have to do to is match your step
and
marvel at how the echoes sync
with every one of your resounding steps.
Each in turn, building upon the last into a glorious orchestra.
They shake my stones until one little loose rock comes plummeting down.
In its stead,
a wondrous beam of light shines radiance through my dusty air.
(sfumato)
My all enveloping world is no longer.
I know there is more for me,
far away.
A world of light,
A world of joy,
A world of love
Out beyond these beautiful walls.
...I am weak
and my world crumbles
from the beauty your footfalls have left on my soul
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Well, you'll pobablly be in another womans arms in the years to come
but that doesnt faze this thing
welling
that runs through the tunnels and the funnels of this heart
my love
because it gives me conviction when you are weak
it gives you the loving that you seek
and yours
like chemistry
it gives me the wish fullfillment, the dream I'd always wanted to meet
you are my sorrows dry
the tear drops from tears
separated from thier highest fate
transmuted from young coal to old gold
you bring something with you
with that pride welled up in your heart
ike a wise kind serpant
that only seeks to help
only seeks to pleasre it self
to helping me
and those who are comming
you have the ancients in those eyes
considerable, and powerful
they recognize the same power inside
me
I didnt need your acknowledgment for it to be here
but without it
I wouldnt be here
it would die whith te last morsels of my heart
to a kindly but devious part
Ive been called from the old story books, then
when the gods were our best of friends
but now I am here
in a world that is no longered catered to
because of fear
the children are blind and weak
and recognition, friendship wa all that I really ever seeked
with shoulder bones of gold
you reached into me
and saw something old
saw something untouched by the hardships that has the power to turn something beautiful
decreppid and old
not that Ib havet
havent felt the shiver of the cold
by my own small fraction of foolishness
because I listened to what this life had shown
but all the while I thought of you
even while others ran me through
this same kindness isnt wasted on you
it gives me great pleasure to do
all of this for you
because you dont look down on me
yu see yoursef in my glee
and I see a young god
with a youthful nourished body from the glitters its mind contains
like a wise stag, you've lived your ife as not to shame
the wisdoms and truth carried in your name
you make love to me
my wounds you clearly see
My lovliness dare not loosen themselves from me
my spirit is wise
and its beauty
its heart
its demise
but I am safe with you making love from behind my thighs
I am recognized for the creature I really am
not the kind to still be walking the land
but with your face in mine
my eyes flicker with a hope, completely consolidated
by your firm touch
your firm kiss
upon my soft halo
we are
the same creature
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
The pressure drops,
and the leaves begin to
swirl around a dusty lake.
Fire in the sky
rolls in with the clouds
riding a difference between a
splitting of hot and cold.
The hot air ***** the rain
further,
while the cold air cushions
and pushes
further.
In another distance
a similar storm brushes in
with a deep wind that
has carried it across an ocean,
to pull in more water
to travel
further,
pushed by the cold of what
is behind
and pulled by the heat
of what is ahead.
These two of a system
meet over this lake
and crash together,
like two gas giants.
The Earth shakes,
the lake creates waves,
and a look above shows
the funnels coming down.
One of pure chaotic wind,
and another of raw destructive water.
Trapped by each others
opposition
and support,
they dance across the lake,
lifting the leaves
and spinning
the weight of their composition
into one another,
until finally
they merge into a
brief or non-brief
union,
pull into the sky
as it splits apart,
breaks the storm
and leaves
clear skies.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
On some distant island
The fish swim –
In the air
And upside-down.
And they talk like people
And they talk unlike people
And they always look silly.
I’m sure of it.
I know because I want to know.
Has a curious vision-arrow ever glanced your eye,
Forsaking your pupil and enjoying your iris?
One or two have mine.
I think to the bowman always:
A black hole, and at least as complex,
But not a hole of darkness.
Nay, in my own, I see the fish.
An extravagant concavity that appears convex.
Eye – flipped funnel
Man – flipped funnel
The mind works like class notes,
Disheveled.
A realm of those aqueous creatures
Can’t be possible and
Must be possible because
I want it to be.
Even holes are filled with earth, air, ether
Even funnels.
Who is to tell me
That my fish can’t have their reality elsewhere?
Some infinite alternity where
Things go and are made
And holes, filled, are emptied?
Who to tell me?
A man who sees colors
To describe to a man who sees black
Some ethereal place
Which is neither black nor color?
No.
On some distant island,
The fish don’t fly –
They swim in the air.
I promise.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC