"becomings" poems
a simple shape
a foundation
our stability
our confident strength..
but ask we must
ask how sufficient
for our lives in
these disturbing years..
is now our time
is our honored square
more dependable
in a new light..?
dare we let go
disconnect those corners
allow the four lines
to drift as they may..?
one mae become bold
more solid
more dark..
another fades to
a slim beam of light..
the other two
lack decision right now
end up comfortably
somewhere between..
then we notice
we cannot distinguish
which line dark
and which light..
seeming becomings
before our eye..
is our square
strong as before...?
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
The form
the flux,
the constant
becomings
the duty,
distraction,
the running
of motors,
the quotas,
the breadline,
the rising
and shining
the hiding
a stupefied look
in your eyes
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 12:36 PM UTC
you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings
we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia
I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties
grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings
we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia
I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties
grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.
But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.
Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.
But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.
Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.
But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.
Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
.
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.
But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.
Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
.
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.
But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.
Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
la la la la
is this what love feels like
or what I want it
to feel like when it comes
slam-bamming in
the snigger on the stairs
first saxophone note
my throat
knows the right words
speak
of succulent fruits
count the seconds
it takes
for our fingers to crumple
in warm baths
look
toothbrushes together
own side of the bed
I have a side
where I sleep
in the madness of you
la la la la
I can’t sing
but I must have swallowed a pill
or a bucketful
of elation
look at me go ha ha
does it crunch as an apple
is it flat pack furniture
cup of coffee
in the same café
steam to sip sip sip
my temperature spiking
blood thunderstorm
in my ears
coloured hair
new language
list of I’m becomings
you’re becomings
oh darling
not pumpkin never pumpkin
lyrically I’m losing it
love like this
or not at all my love
maybe a shelf
without books
maybe a house we paint
or a song
how it starts
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
I am a forest of many small fires.
Matches tossed carelessly
into tinder which waits fervently
for the touch of a sparking disarray,
I am all at once a smolder and senseless blazing flame
and the smoke which billows away from me reeks arrestingly of shame.
And so I am ashes,
purely enveloped the black sickening airs of ghastly passions,
insisted becomings and hasty stashes,
I am shame
and attempts to mask it
seem to disintegrate like the cajoles of yesterday.
I am a forest of many small fires which have melded into one,
as the blurring of myself with the long observed sum.
As dust dry bones to the carcasses of slain,
the creatures of innocence whose tried escapes but in vain,
I slough the suffering of a thousand drunkards on the undeserving lips,
of the meticulous sparrow’s sloppily incinerated nest.
I am dissolution to good and my flames stand to show,
of how easily destruction may pass for personal growth.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
The future belongs to the strong ones who believe in their dreams. Do I? I have a goals I haven't accomplished? Well, I'm alone in my own aspiration. Dreams, Becomings, our future. Some people want to become nurses to treat illness and others desire to be a teacher to inspire. Even I, for instance, wanted to be rich and powerful. But whenever someone asks me, "There is nothing wrong with wanting" I answer. I dwell over a lot of things since I was a jitterbug, I had so many "wants"and "needs" for life but I couldn't imagine that one day, I would have to answer this question.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC