Becomes Poems - Poems about Becomes

When Soup's Sandbox Becomes a Litter Box

I took umbrage over a comment in a current blog, in part stating that poetry, "... is a battlefield..." No. There should be no gauntlets thrown, no darts hurled, and no negative words hurled as if Poetry Soup is a battlefield. I was motivated to write...

Over and over again, blogs become a wallowing hole
where ugliness

What becomes of a world?

The trees ache with a pain only those who have witnessed true horror 
The swinging rope moping for it had been turned to a killer 
The threads unravelling trying to escape 
A maze with no end 
Running, running, running Away
Yet still can't escape its fate 

A fallen leaf a tear of the tree
Weeping for a

When Poetry Becomes the Last Witness

I write,
because if I do not write,
I fear I have never been.
I write,
because my body no longer fits
except on the page.

my poetry is not recited.
it is washed in a basin,
hung to dry in the cold,
and smells of unsaid life.

whoever reads and does not weep,
has not understood.
who closes the book and falls silent,
is my brother.

When Money Becomes Power

I have known the hollow silence of empty hands,
once full of gold, now dust and fading strands.
I gave my heart in seasons bright and fair,
helping those in need, with love laid bare.

But when the coins ran out, the doors grew cold,
no pennies left to buy a dream or hold.
Help came shackled, wrapped in debt’s tight

In the blue morning, the sky becomes a shining sapphire

In the blue morning, the sky becomes a shining sapphire,
Golden rays paint stories on the earth, like a dreaming dream,
Love is born in the soul, a rare flower at dawn's first light,
Forgiveness gently descends like rain, soothing hearts that have suffered and sighed.
Your serene gaze, like the sea under the moon, reflects deep longings in

If you were mine

If you were mine—
I’d wake to the sharp weight of absence
pressed against my ribs,
the taste of rain forgotten
where your shoulder used to be.

I’d learn the language of silence,
count the cracks where light once lived,
trace the salted trails
that dreams forgot
on temples too tired to remember.

Sometimes, your pulse is a ghost—
a stutter lost in midnight’s hush,
a code

When Musing Becomes Music

In whispers of lyric and rhythm, we find,  
Resonate echoes, the heart intertwined.  
To contemplate in shadows, where thoughts softly steer,  
Soul steering moments, where dreams draw near.  

Dance in the twilight, let melodies flow,  
Listen intently, let the beat gently show.  
Hear the instruments weave their stories untold,

Tiny Tim Becomes Musclebound Jim

      We all knew a fellow named ‘Tiny Tim’
      Fit as a fiddle, though extremely slim

         Poor Tim had weakling muscles
         And needed a side hustle

   

Your Hair, Becomes You

It 
Frames your face
Shapes your smile
Dances when you chuckle
Breathes on chord of wind
Covers, envelops, enshrouds 
With strands and strings
Tuned
In

In the depths of silence, when quiet becomes a deep and unwavering tomb

In the depths of silence, when quiet becomes a deep and unwavering tomb,
where the echo of old certainties dissolves under the shadow of a bygone memory,
there, among the fragments of stillness, the subtle whispers of a new direction appear,
like a thread of light piercing through the cracks of an old wall, promising a secret spring.
In

When Fields Becomes Cities

Once there stood a golden field,
Swaying crops, a farmer's yield.
Morning songs of birds took flight,
Beneath the sky so vast and bright.

The village paths, of dust and stone,
Where children laughed and cattle roamed,
Now paved with tar, so smooth and wide,
Where restless cars and buses glide.

The thatched-roof homes with lantern’s glow,
Replaced by lights in glassy rows.
The banyan

When Duty Becomes Love

The one who cries without tears, without a sound—
That’s a father.
The one who wears the cracks of his children’s fate
Like bangles on his own wrist—
That’s a father.

New shoes enter the house,
But his soles are worn down to nothing—
That’s a father.
The one who dreams through others' eyes,
And carries those dreams in his heart—
That’s a father.

It’s true,

Virtual Insanity Becomes World Reality

       Virtual Insanity Becomes World Reality
 
The accursed news, so  obviously painful to this poetess!
That we earthlings decided were in need no of divine intervention.
Yes…wanting none of God's love or, attention?
Oh, indeed some not only scoff but pay no heed to God’s direction?

Get real,my intellectually bright friends!
How many

The pool becomes a canvas, whitening all the scars that hurt

The pool becomes a canvas, whitening all the scars that hurt,
Allowing you to escape from the shadows that hide easily beneath the foam,
As if the stains of being touched, wounded, and haunted,
Had melted into the silent water that embraced you.
As the heavy weight fills your lungs with silent water,
A strange clarity emerges, drowning out lost

When Silence Becomes No More

I used to speak in whispers,
words swallowed before they could leave my lips.
My silence was like a shield, a cage, 
something to keep me safe. 

But silence has a weight,
it bends you, presses you,
until you crack open,
until the words escape. 

Now I speak,
not for them, but for me. 
And though it still trembles,
I speak.

• Short Becomes Poems
• Famous Becomes Poems
• Best Becomes Poems
• Read Becomes Poems
• Long Becomes Poems
• Becomes Quotes