Best Funneled Poems
August-5- 2026
Contest- The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
~PLACED FIRST~
"A poet sees things which others seem to ignore and stores up his thoughts and impressions in the casket of verse, treasuring them as valuables that Time can't steal"~ By Poet
Alone, when I sit in my room in pensive mood,
Thoughts flit across my mind in endless succession.
They erupt out slicing time and space,
And flow in disarray, in a jumbled mass.
Then my facile pen starts moving quickly,
Gathering my thoughts in reflective refrain.
Like waves beating madly across the shoreline,
Emotions flow out, my mind no longer can contain.
On flipping through the pages of my life,
Deep nostalgia overwhelms me.
Like falling petals, as years hastily pass,
I long for the past when my days were quite glossy.
My mind wanders to distant memories dear,
And I wish to preserve what time has stolen.
So, I scribble my thoughts on the sheet in hand
To traverse through bygone times over again.
In my silence, I hear footsteps of the past
And see my dear ones as shadows fading out.
My parents who are no more there to care,
Gleam before, leaving my eyes misty.
I am on a sacred mission~
To stitch together broken memories and moments
And build a bridge between past and present.
My poems, l hope will serve as a window
That I can open and close at will.
Only in silence l can behold scenes,
That others miss out in diverse distractions.
The more I grow silent, the more I can see and hear.
I get ensnared by the breathtaking view of a sunset
The serenade of nocturnal birds,
The beauty of blooms and meadows wide and green,
The vastness of the sapphire sky -
Where rainbows arch after a drizzle
Or stars twinkle at a cloudless night.
Rills as they murmur and cataracts as they roar,
Fall on my ears as dulcet music of the cosmic band.
I wish to recall such sights and sounds
That once I looked on with a casual glance,
And fell like grains of sand funneled through the hour glass,
Later forsaken with no effort to keep or brush them up.
I wish to preserve them in poetry’s fragile art~
A craft sharpened and perfected in pensive mood.
So, time wouldn’t steal them away from my memory.
I strive to make my verses a mirror reflecting life.
Tim had all the necessary ingredients right next to his ancient burner
Shark teeth dangling from a sunken necklace at the cutting edge but
The amulet had turned into chains and shackles grinding the chef’s mind
A lost recipe for happiness but and he had no appetite for nourishment
Attrition boiled over when nutrition resembled a poisonous chalice
Too tired to take stock he dwelled on his primordial soup turning back
Primitive and involuntary he turned on the gas and smelled his demise
Rotten onions had depleted his tears thinly sliced and disguised
Fetid leeks leaked misery a trickle or two at full stagnant pace
Spoilt thyme oozed malodorous rosaries into beads of corrosion
Squashed tomatoes splashed foul decomposition into his eyes
Fennel funneled his vision into a bubbling hell of indigestion
Olive oil splashed straight into his heart with no glimmer of peace
Cantankerous garlic would not fend off his festering demons
While a bay leaf could not keep mortally morose sadness at bay
Great white oblivion but slowly Tim made friends with predation
Resolved he was allergic to fishy feelings and toxic distaste
He did not remember at first how to simmer emotions and passion
But onions started to sprinkle tears of joy and the shark pointed the way
Soon leeks from a Welsh legend delineated friend from mal-aligned foes
Thyme soothed his splattering cough and he found his true inner voice
Tomatoes seeded bright red orange chakras from base to the top while
Fennel fought of bloating depression and conquered agony’s cramps
Previously oblivious oils from virginal growth re-birthed him into life
He licked his wounds and wild garlic from an ocean of wonderment
And chose the berries from a long forgotten and noble laurel tree
Tim had barked up the wrong perspective and had muted the roar
Eventually he conjoined ingredients recipe and fortunate blessings
Left the sharks out of the chowder and slurped smooth soup into his shell
So, it starts years ago, with protests in the streets
People allowed to lay on the road, block traffic
Then, start fires, attack police, as they’re told to stand down!
Criminals with 18+ offenses free to roam as they please
Thousands others were released from prisons by Obama
Illegal immigrants were allowed to surge into our country
All while violating laws, without consequence!
Now, we have a new president accused of obstruction
While Congresswoman Pelosi, obstructs congress
Withholding articles of impeachment, after the vote!
Hollywood actors and actresses are threatening our president
Even offering to accept money to assassinate him, take his head!
All of this without consequence!
We have the group ANTIFA attacking supporters at rallies
Assaulting people, spitting in their face, without consequence
Then, we have sanctuary cities protecting illegal immigrants
They don’t even allow ICE to do their job accordingly!
Instead, they release them onto our streets to be free,
With prior records of rape and murder!
Now, we have all these problems with Iran happening
But if you look back in time, Obama sent 1.7 billion dollars
He sent the money on pallets to Iran, funneled to terrorists!
All of this was without consequence, no accountability!
This is only touching upon part of what is happening
These are things happening in the United States!
We are losing law and order and without it we will fall!
Heidi Sands
1/7/20
A parched wind
still circles the dust devils
corralling them
in funneled fury.
The old rooster
atop the barn
squeaks
as the weather changes
as do the joints
in the old blue jeans.
Hard black coffee
bubbles on the stove,
her apron hangs
a memory
on the chair,
an old screen door
shudders,
slams shut,
an old dog curses
the dust.
Bowed heads watch
as he laces his boots,
reaches for that
damned hat,
sips the last of the coffee
runs his fingers
across the hanging apron
whispers
“I love you”,
sets off to worship
in the shrine
of their lives.
©5/7/2018
for Laura Loo – Best Free Verse Poem In May 2018 Poetry Contest
The morning calm has greeted me with sun
the stillness of the day enjoyed by one
a breeze begins to move as time has passed
a leaf begins to dance around the trees
a gust is formed to add into the cast
to introduce the bending of the elms
the grass will sway as waves in oceans green
Along the shore the sailing ships move on
pushed by a squall it drifts against the tide
the squall has strengthened to the Winds of War
the day has darkened to an eerie mist
the surface winds create a cloud of dust
a funneled tube brings havoc to the land
destroying life and matter to the earth
the Winds of war have dealt their final blow
the next day comes with greeting by the sun
but this day will be enjoyed by no one
December 20, 2014
Looking down upon the deed I find
The questions circling in my mind
Was there some choice I overlooked?
Some option hid or worse forsook?
My brothers now behind me stand,
and we proclaim a merry band!
Yet it’s the blood-soaked ground behind
That seems to fill my heavy mind.
We sought to change the status quo
Human nature was our foe
But you fought back as best you could
And never questioned if you should
I know through which eyes you saw
Hid behind bastions of law
We tried through politics first of course
Yet through trickery no recourse
You knew how the game was played
And for overconfidence you stayed
Demanding stays and motions served
Ignoring laments you claimed absurd
And so we tried to explain your quirk
To people indentured forced to work
To pay off debts taken in desperate need
Unable to know all was your deed
With numbers, charts and program code
To show them you had made their load
But too complex it failed to stick
Their worker’s minds were still too thick
And worse, far worse we found
You’d made your problem common ground
You funneled debt into bad loans
And hid your lies in people’s homes
Thus making the cost of your demise
The loss of a nation’s people most prized
The middle class, their homes in hock
The value fake, their lives in shock
If you went down you had made sure
Their fortunes would follow, a poison cure
And so you forced a government
To break it’s sacred sacrament
And here we are, smoke all around
And blood, sticky blood, upon the ground
And although inside I hold a sob
I cannot quit this awful job
I lift my gun, a heavy weight
To free our children from our fate
Old man wind pulled back the ocean waters
and funneled them into his watering can;
sprinkled them across the state;
over-watering every garden in sight.
A flood, six inches of water invaded my basement;
a three inch wading hole in the street and
a fortune in appliances and furniture was lost.
Afterwards he painted a rainbow in a cloudy sky and
started over again.
His tantrum lasted for two weeks.
In the heaven above
The sky was packed
With too much snow
So the angels thought of a solution
And aimed their snow blower
To a special spot
That cleared the snow from above
Slowly the snow funneled
Down to the earth
Then it became stormy
It was like that all day long
The wind blew the snowflakes everywwashere
Along the walking path
It was impossible to see
It was very stormy
No one ventured outside
Drench me, O God;
pour upon me the excess of the heavens!
Drown me in the blood of the clouds,
and I will fight for my country,
fight for my brothers;
fight to be worthy
of your love and your creation -
and the warrior-poets of old will be proud.
I know how to live,
to deserve the cleansing rain.
I know how to write,
and I'm learning how to fight.
But bless me with nature's sweet shower,
and I'll be like no other.
Between three and four years later,
and reading the last makes me cringe -
I do believe I'll try again.
"O God" became godless, natural sky.
"I will fight for my country" became
I will scowl a little less,
smile just a little more,
as I remember that dream now dead.
"Your love and your creation" became
the love of one I don't believe is there -
worthy of my creation being anything more than luck,
by another myth, legend, deity that never was.
"The warrior-poets of old will be proud" became
maybe the will and the writing will be enough
to assuage my forced idleness, my vitriol;
my joy at the thought of impending escape.
"I'm learning how to fight" became
they taught me how, as well as to hate.
"I'll be like no other" became
I'm no more in valiant deed, in fact less,
than so very many.
Now if I do say so myself, that's better,
or at the very least more accurate, up to date -
but I don't think that's all there is in me.
"I don't drink" became
"I drink for flavor", became "I drink".
Unknowing exuberance became knowing exhaustion,
hunger for a greater purpose became
an unprecedented yearning for the lesser.
Energy intended for discipline, strength, became
fire funneled into frustration,
ardor affixed on anger.
From one to another, such a seamless step;
but from that to another,
or even back to one,
such the strenuous sojourn.
and intuitive paramour, whence swooning swain first experienced anew
an alien emotional lightness of being
within mine hardened carapace did brew
a propensity to surmise, intuit, and detect a romantic joyful dew
drop similar to lovers in dustbin of historical annals
dipped ‘ere farewell flew
common as the air we breathe,
this new found muse sic cull passion grew
yet handled with kid gloves,
which lacked the means to nurture and hue
a novel interpersonal ecstasy, which with fits and starts knew
tony yen physics manifested into a mutual attraction
despite any self-admission new
to this chap, whose skills sans intimacy infantile
and as a result inadvertently caused grief
to a gal (who valiantly christened her vehicle Ruby)
hoping to stride down the pew
which outcome thwarted,
now tis much more sands of mine life time
funneled down the hourglass shaped queue
without any rhyme nor reason find this bard **** to rue
how a golden opportunity indiscriminately
lost a flickr and sentiments now
akin to culinary Michelin patshke stew
rather futile to ruminate
the long lapsed travails that tripped a true
lee darling dame, whose take on the matter,
this poet would cherish a view
yet….nary a clue exists
if any possibility to revisit that denouement recalling
the awkward fits and starts
before embers of warm reciprocity kindled
reciprocal an ambition to court, jest and indubitably woo
to flip and shutterfly at greased lightening speed
back to that contra dance at Summit Presbyterian Church
at the cross roads of Green and Westview Avenues.
Romans 13:1 - “The authorities that exist have been established by God”…
Though that seems more of a facade, long shot and a fraud from a world long gone
Since sin no longer seems fiction in this depiction of friction with biased predictions
An election... with no intention of protection for the derelict despite respective messages
Seems like these cycles are a hit-miss of plot twists and taut fists that obscure who God is
But we make no connection that contention from our own predilection sows dissension
And without intervention comes resentment, we need spiritual direction
But instead of resting in God’s embrace we attack others with a verbal mace
while we brace our own heart for impact, still intact, rate of pace faster than light in space
We’re caught up in the race but instead should race to erase the rays of hate from our own race.
Why do we debate the debates as we relegate and castigate with hate, then demand a rebate
or hammer their manner like it’s grammar, then try to conjugate what they obfuscate
Our minds are lost in space while propaganda confiscates our thoughts of late
Then traps them in relapse, perhaps inaction would produce the largest fraction of satisfaction
But our thoughts are funneled and fueled into to a brew of psychological stew
so heated and cruel it boils over derision and division, it’s no wonder we have tunneled vision.
Then when the door unhinges, pops open, it’s rigged with bigoted dissonance, explosives
that spring from an ocean filled with commotion from springs of offense overflowing
because we dared to confused fact with opinion and reasoning with motive
America caught between a persona gargantuan and aroma of pantsuits and emails scandalous
The purposes of service is not to deter with private servers or privates and perverts with backers
in reserve or greenbacks in reserves, we reserve the right to deserve more than this disservice
So when we venture into this realm of guesswork where conjecture is turned into adventure
When the cyclical turns visibly unbiblical with violently physical intervals fueled by the visceral
Instead of surrendering our heart’s rhapsody of magnitude into apathy and lassitude
...let us pray for strength to maintain a God sustained attitude of positive aptitude
and intuitive paramour, whence swooning swain first experienced anew
an alien emotional lightness of being within mine hardened carapace did brew
a propensity to surmise, intuit, and detect a romantic joyful dew
drop similar to lovers in dustbin of historical annals dipped ‘ere farewell flew
common as the air we breathe, this new found muse sic cull passion grew
yet handled with kid gloves, which lacked the means to nurture and hue
a novel interpersonal ecstasy, which with fits and starts knew
tony yen physics manifested into a mutual attraction
despite any self-admission new
to this chap, whose skills sans intimacy infantile
and as a result inadvertently caused grief
to a gal (who valiantly christened her vehicle Ruby)
hoping to stride down the pew
which outcome thwarted, now tis much more sands of mine life time
funneled down the hourglass shaped queue
without any rhyme nor reason find this bard **** to rue
how a golden opportunity indiscriminately
lost a flickr and sentiments now akin to culinary Michelin patshke stew
rather futile to ruminate the long lapsed travails that tripped a true
lee darling dame, whose take on the matter, this poet would cherish a view
yet….nary a clue exists if any possibility to revisit that denouement recalling
the awkward fits and starts before embers of warm reciprocity kindled
reciprocal an ambition to court, jest and indubitably woo
to flip and shutterfly at greased lightening speed
back to that contra dance at Summit Presbyterian Church
at the cross roads of Green and Westview Avenues.
I sit there among the trees
Leafy recess an arbor breeze
Husky sounds breathe wheeze
Tremor of wind.
I sit and hike through the mind
My god is great sweet and kind
Slowly the gems of soul are mined
In eyes of blind.
I sit and chant my holy prayer
Lord in heart you so desire
In the dark I see the watch fire
Funneled through lyre.
I listen to the eternal whisper
Deep silent good thought-keeper
In the deep nook hear the beeper
Lord is coming-near.
Whispers Of Your Soul - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Gail Angel Doyle
Poet: RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
Written on 15 December 2014
and intuitive paramour, whence swooning swain first experienced anew
an alien emotional lightness of being
within mine hardened carapace did brew
a propensity to surmise, intuit, and detect a romantic joyful dew
drop similar to lovers in dustbin of historical annals
dipped ‘ere farewell flew
common as the air we breathe,
this new found muse sic cull passion grew
yet handled with kid gloves,
which lacked the means to nurture and hue
a novel interpersonal ecstasy, which with fits and starts knew
tony yen physics manifested into a mutual attraction
despite any self-admission new
to this chap, whose skills sans intimacy infantile
and as a result inadvertently caused grief
to a gal (who valiantly christened her vehicle Ruby)
hoping to stride down the pew
which outcome thwarted,
now tis much more sands of mine life time
funneled down the hourglass shaped queue
without any rhyme nor reason find this bard **** to rue
how a golden opportunity indiscriminately
lost a flickr and sentiments now
akin to culinary Michelin patshke stew
rather futile to ruminate
the long lapsed travails that tripped a true
lee darling dame, whose take on the matter,
this poet would cherish a view
yet….nary a clue exists
if any possibility to revisit that denouement recalling
the awkward fits and starts
before embers of warm reciprocity kindled
reciprocal an ambition to court, jest and indubitably woo
to buzzfeed flip ant lee, and shutterfly at greased lightening speed
back to that contra dance at Summit Presbyterian Church
at the cross roads of Green and Westview Avenues.
Imagine the force
And thrust and power
Of a tornado funneled and thunderous
A whipping icy shower
A destruction potential so wondrous
Yet imagine it does not break
It does not shred and it does not shake
But builds up and restores
That which is broken
That what is shattered
That what was battered
By life and time
Builds up and restores
Heals and binds
Makes whole again
Until it shines
Imagine that
If in reverse
The world gets better
And not worse
Just imagine
That