Becoming Poems

Love and Becoming

Nanaya: 
“Self love - bereft of sin, beseeching and riveting in my spirit, jumps over me in the power of expression. Each twirl of my spirits dance radiates an effervescent power directed at my overcoming. What do I overcome? Suffering my youth, my age, my indiscriminate desire to give up. Yet, there is life in

On the Brink of Becoming

I stand on day's brink
beyond lullabies in dusk—
their echoes replaced
with budding flower questions 
thriving in uncertainty

I pound the ground hard
fury rages in my chest—
why must I still wait
my voice shatters quiet skies
demanding I get replies

walls are barriers
denying my restless pleas
rules drawn, then erased—
I force doors that creak ajar
then slam shut to cage me in

I hear

On Becoming Obsolete

Shall we once more, in mountains of our thought,
Gaze down upon the vastness of our ground,
And know that for the meadows newly sought,
The flowering fields shall not by us be found?
Shall we recall that bronze took place of stone,
And then in turn to iron did yield its way;
That ships of sail no more the oceans

Becoming

Your Divine Spirit is an open book of spontaneous reference. I have met people who seldom read the bible...yet, most every word they speak and action they take, is Biblically correct. Am I saying, no need to read the bible? Absolutely not -- if a sense of emptiness, loneliness, dissatisfied existence, read, devour, savor! With

No Title

Each day, I bury the version of me who loved less. Enthralled by my own becoming, I have fallen out of love countless times into new love. I savour each moment spent amidst my anointment towards higher values, and I ask, is love worthy of me? The idol of love is tantalizing, patient and kind,

Misty maybe becoming

In dawn's hushed oozy mist
truths seem soft and gentle
so unsure of themselves
they become blurred shapeless
with no hold, knurl or grip
to bring into focus

becoming food

raven's wingspan was huge
her talons grabbed me right up
I became food

The Garden of Becoming

I plant no seeds in soil bare,
But in the unseen breath of air—
Where roots of dreams reach deep, unknown,
And blossoms grow from seeds unsown.

Each learner walks a secret path,
Winds shaping sails with gentle math.
No single map can guide them all,
For some must rise, and some must fall.

I weave the light through shadowed space,
With tools of

Chamber of Becoming

We laid our breath
in the cold dish of morning
not to warm it,
but to watch it vanish.
The way ghosts do.

You struck the match inside me
with a tremor,
like forgiveness
forgot to be kind.

I was not born for light.
I was spilled
like ink across your undone name,
every letter twitching
like a fish on the wrong side of water.

You came in with

Fortress of Becoming

W-alls
I-n
L-ife
L-inger
I-nward,
A-s
M-emories

C-onstantly
A-nchor
B-elief,
U-plift
G-rowth,
N-ourish
A-spiration,
S-trengthening
O-neself
N-obly

©bfa061525
Monocrostic (Birthday of William C. Cabugnason)

Becoming

Time casts a heavy glow
On the world I left behind,
Transfixed on a new tomorrow,
All the new seeds I’ll sow.

Emerging is a new day,
How the light blinds my eyes.
Focus on the bright cascade
Of this everlasting rise.

Beneath the earth is trembling,
My footsteps unsure and numb.
The silence almost deafening—
I can almost hear Hope hum.

A quick glance back behind

On Becoming a Poet

  
    Never came close to starving
         didn't wait tables or wash dishes
    
    Never hung out in the subway
         no cults or commune on my resume

  

Temple of My Becoming

You did not rush the ruins of me.
You entered gently,
Like a prayer whispered
In the hollows of a broken chapel.

Your touch-
Not just desire,
But devotion.
You traced every scar
As though it were scripture.

We did not collide,
We communed-
Your breath a psalm,
My sighs an amen
Rising from the altar of my ache.

Where others only sought fire,
You brought warmth.
Where I had gone

As We Metamorphose

Line of inquiry:
“being mistook we burnt the book

thoughts rest, we dwell in our heart’s nest

touched by spirit, our body shook

by God’s light blest as we undressed”

Earthly cravings like ice melt away

Envy sarcasm and all forms of hate

Warmth of love and God’s green grace

Frees all of us red hearts celebrate 

To be free of silver suffering

The Paradiddle of Being - Book Two: The Becoming

VI.

We are all metric modulations
of our former selves—changing time signatures
mid-measure, learning to count
in odd meters when life refuses
to conform to 4/4 expectations
finding beauty in 7/8 existence—
the off-kilter cadence
of becoming.

The teenager tattoos pain across her skin
in sixteenth-note flurries—
razor crescendos marking flesh
rimshots echoing in a locked room
her body a snare absorbing
what no one will hear.

But the counselor

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