Tunneled Poems | Examples

All Up in Your Head

The drum of your heart, a frantic beat,
Against my palm, a captive heat.
Your lips ajar, a wordless sigh escapes,
Your gaze ensnared, you're just a prisoner to my shapes.

I've tunneled in, a subtle spore,
Planted deep within your core,
Lost in this intoxicating rain,
I’m a weaver of spells that ignites depths of your pain.

Your obsession blooms, blinded by desire,
Consumed by this infernal fire.
I'm the constant phantom, lurking shade,
Haunting even time and space, that's a promise.
That will have you turning each maddening, inner page.

A constant thirst, a growing, aching need,
For a deeper draught, a passionate deed.
You crave the touch, the whisper, and the chase,
Lost in the labyrinth of my embrace.

Addicted now, to the pleasures I impart,
You're a puppet now, dancing to the rhythm of my art.

I am the echo in your hollow space,
The constant phantom you can't displace.
I'm all up in your head, playing in this gilded cage,
Turning your sanity into an untamed rage.

Trapped and tangled, in this silken thread,
Forever mine, now and until you're dead.
All because I got all up in your head.
A symphony of madness, that is all up in your head.

Gobsmacked by a Puppy

We secured the dogs in a chain link fenced pen
I was gobsmacked to see the puppy ten minutes later
How had he gotten out?
Like a convict he had tunneled out

In ten minutes making a hole under the gate
Big enough to squeeze out his eighty-two-pound body
A space ship could have fit into this hole!
What is he doing now?

I turned to see; he was tearing up the driveway.
This is a black asphalt driveway!
We called a company to fix it;
They were gobsmacked that a puppy had done this!

Resurrected Rhapsody

flow of awareness
intuitively intrinsic 
                 channeled 
through tunneled time
                 navigates 
cognitive impulses
      basic 
incessant surge
      of 
enveloping waves
of enlightenment
     through 
timeless portals
of perception
     reflective
opens up  
floodgates of 
                 bliss


pulse of time 
vibrates 
     in 
inner space
                infinite
psychic frequency
                resonant        
tuned precisely 
     in 
halcyon harmony 
with intonation   
of eternity
                 transitions 
    from 
one manifestation 
to another
                 modulated 
by edified touch 
     of 
sanctified soul
                  illumined

life force
                 invincible
abhors vacuum 
                 pervasive
propels the essence 
of existence 
       through 
elusive emptiness
filled fervently
       with
resurrected rhapsody
                  innate

The Lion of March

Wind-moles have tunneled
through the daffodil rings,
stems are uprooted or fractured,
Yellow bells and trumpets
fly in a tumbling sky.

The third month is a despoiler,
it scatters and stomps fiercely
upon the newly arrived.
Roofs are launched
to flap away on broken wings.

Yet the strong survive
until the lion yawns
temporarily bored with its play.
Like any cat, it yawns
and sleeps
while the sky washes it face.

If the new risen shoots persist,
if the tender buds
escape all runaway winds
if our lives can be nailed down,
only then
will the lion of March at last
lay down with its lambs,

but only to guard them
from its own rage and hungers.

Chambers of Secrets

I embarked on a journey,  
In search of something that was not written,  
If it was written, perhaps only in part,  
With missing pages, if it ever existed.

I traversed meadows,  
Sojourned across turbulent seas,  
Tunneled through the night,  
And walked through the heart of the deep.

I was relentless in my search,  
Undaunted in my pursuit;  
I encountered the strange,  
Almost cloaked by the unknown.

In my exhausting journey, I met a sage,  
Who understood my plight with just a few words.  
He told me that mysteries are not found in caves or mystical staffs,  
Nor at the distant ends of the earth,  
But within humans and their chambers of secrets.


January 23, 2024.

connected

Lay your feet in strawberry stream
feel the seeds red and green
Rushing flowing through outer space 
Together bathed one sun one place
Burrowed tunneled between the worlds
Return to onesness is unfurled 
In the shoot slide twirling smoothly 
Eye's resting  keep us moving
Journey destination all the same 
feel you begin on  astral planes
Inate nature pure untouched 
Angelic inate cosmic dust

We are home 
Time stood still
Silence sparkles

Emptiness

Intrinsic intuition tunneled through time,
drives incessant the central cognitive impulses, 
surges with the sensuous waves 
of enlivening enlightenment,
through the vacuity of amorphous perception.

The rhythm of time pulsates relentless 
in the inner secluded space infinite, 
the fervent frequency in harmony 
with the intonation of the void,
the transition designed unequivocally
from one articulation to another,
modulated innately by the motivating stimulus
of the illumined soul.

Undiscerned life force abhors pervasive vacuum, 
propels persistently the existential essence 
through the sense-saturated emptiness
of enigmatic equanimity of abandonment 
to the self-suffused sanctum of fulfilling bliss.

Essence In Emptiness

Intrinsic intuition 
tunneled through time,
drives incessant  
central cognitive impulses, 
surges sensuous waves 
of enlightenment
enlivening,
through vacuity 
of perception
amorphous.

Rhythm of time 
resonates relentless 
in inner space
infinite,
frequency in harmony 
with the intonation 
of eternity,
transition designed
unequivocally
from one articulation 
to another,
modulated innately
by motivating stimulus
of the illumined soul.

Undiscerned life force 
abhors vacuum 
pervasive,
propels persistently  
existential essence 
through sense-saturated 
emptiness of equanimity
enigmatic,
to the cosmic cauldron
divine.

Detolf

Today was the first day I held 
a sledgehammer with intention
Callouses connect palms to fingers
tiny fleshy boa constrictors.

There is no catharsis
I know this to be a hollow act
With a face smithed of iron, 
a body lathed with linseed wood,
and a head full of nothing.

No I am not thinking, I am
in fact refusing to do so.
This is an act of refusal
I am choosing childish behavior.

The empty parking lot
execution spot greets
the glass bodied shelf
Which will no longer take
the space of memories it held.

What should be cold and angular
Void of anything aside reflection
is a monument of mourning
a future I shall never know.

Light refracts upon my cones,
my tunneled vision only to show
a mangled miscarriage of the man
I can never grow into with you.

Opening Up the Love Can

She ran up his spine,
he turned to water.

A geyser of light spurted out of an artery
of unrecognizable thoughts
that tunneled him into her.

He was being opened up;
he began to look around
see only the him/her
of everywhere.

He felt like
an empty can of Spam.

He loved Spam,
it was a cosmic kind of love
that came in many flavors.

March

wind-moles have tunneled
through the daffodil rings
stems are broken
yellow bells and trumpets
fly in a mute sky

the third month
is a wayward despoiler
it stomps on the newly come
the strong survive and persist
until the lion yawns
temporarily bored with its play

one fine day
mild doe-eyed visitors
meander among cotton wool clouds
the lion dreams in his sleep
the next day arrives as his nightmare

here in the havens it is a time for tornados
the earth is burgeoning
greening so tenderly
a perilous time

if the new born shoots
if the new birthed and cradled
escape all the runaway winds
the lion my at last
lay down with the lambs
to guard them
from its own hungers

Trusting the Tree and Gaia

They trusted the tree, so they tunneled beneath her.
Knowing she would keep them safe during the winter.
The bear made his nest first, then the fox.
Lamb followed her mistress, loving her reading voice.

Gaia kept them warm, nurturing them.
The book reader had to come up for food.
As did the fox.
However, the bear slumbered on, listening to the story.

The Railway Station

Neon lights outlined stalls
in braids of red and green
in the dim cavernous hall
of the railway station.
Muted drum taps of passing feet
and crisscross talk were pierced
by stabbing announcements
of departing trains.
A stairway tunneled upwards
to the street
where a wall of daylight
met squinting eyes.
Stonework still wore the soot
of steam trains long silenced
from impatient panting,
their age had passed.
My age was diesel with its fumes
pumping out incessantly
without pausing for a breath.
Guttural piston beats
pulsed the air with shudder.

Some of us still left home
riding dreams on train tracks
or else sailed them to England on P&O.
Most stayed at home
and waited for the ballot.
Out of step with the sixties
the railway station languished 
in its nostalgic façade.
Newspaper banners headlined protests
and the Vietnam war.
Through its ageing concourse
young men moved in haste or haze
towards uncertain destinations

Sunday In the Queen of the West

A slack jawed drunk
thugs his way toward
a down-town bar and grill.
Red lights over sizzling steaks
add flames to his eyes.

Cincinnati on a Sunday morning
trashes its streets
cold winds scatter empty plastic cups,
cigarette butts, sick spills
and the ash of incinerated dinoursours.

Once there were rattle snakes,
now high-rise
mark their once tunneled territory.

The drunk can't find the door
to the bar
he pisses himself
grins through a window
at the beer guzzling diners.

Happy hour
drags itself
through the night,

the Sabbath has to be swept up
made to walk sober,
resurrected.

Glenna's Wedding---1975

We went to Glenna’s wedding
that late afternoon in summer, you 
and I destined next, never younger.

And there was a rigatoni buffet
and open bar soaked in Popov
and lime, and everyone 

was blessed and blasted
in swaddling polyester and chiffon 
as evening did the Hustle away--

And, it was our night after 
Glenna’s wedding 
stealing the honeymoon,

out at the cottage, until 
that fine summer’s threads
shredded off to the floor,

deep into late, warm nights
of a settling fog, much
like doubt and loss.

    We went to Glenna’s wedding
    that afternoon in summer
    never younger, 

    and there was rigatoni
    Popov, shredding threads
    settling fog...Perspective 

is a kaleidoscope 
of tumbling dreams
down the tunneled lens.

I knew the future once:
and it is this idle I have
to wonder in.

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