BELINDA SUBRAMAN

 

Joy To The World

 

Joy rises in a new soft bed.

Crickets and flutes

sing of the night.

 

Thought is plasma

through kinship

common grounds

freedom to Love.

 

There is something Holy

about the Land.

You cannot drown

in the Dead Sea

cradled in the salty

womb water

of Mother Cosmic Orb

moving through Eternity.

 

Future History

 

throwing out my history page by page

its power dimmed by decades

cleaning out my storage

giving, letting go, parting by a third

 

awakened to my former hyper life

aware of my hyper now

activities of daily living spiced

with painting

promoting poets, juggling ten sites

writing while the paint dries

playing a drum now and then

interviewing writers or

recording events around me

chronicling, seeding

sharing what I might have forgotten by now

in my diminishing

 

I only save what quickens my heart or hugs me

as I slowly loosen grip on this plane

readying for leaving

 

my removable, renewable self

calmed my fear of ending

even before the diagnosis

 

I ingest the chapters

the history of my life so far

sieving through me

heading to the big blend

the symbolic, hyperbolic

universal aum

 

Theocratic Authoritarianism

 

The ghosts of Southern Baptists

whisper judgements in my ear.

A quick pithy realization comes.

Criminals waving “holy books”

rule the world.

We were raised

to accept the plan,

not see what we’re losing

or what we never had,

to blame the wrong people

for the wrong things.

 

They give us movie myths

where “right” always wins,

where the man is a prince,

the women is protected

and love is everlasting.

 

But women are struggling

to claim their bodies

as their own

with a threat of prison

if they dare.

They are ordered to bear

future soldiers

but wrap it in religion

and tell us it’s what God says.

 

Writer’s Block

 

Like a frozen hell of winter nights

no home, no blankets, no words.

 

Gravestones stare from the

amorphous chaos of loss.

 

A feathered serpent hibernates

refusing to move.

 

It thinks and dreams

remembering snow

 

and the welcoming of fire

illuminating shadows.

 

A loving memory cracks the ice

and warmth blooms from the inside.

 

Your smile reflects in a window.

Gratitude will save you.

 

Another Goodbye

 

I can always feel

when someone burns in

 

tattoos the brain in color

shadows play in cracks

 

between two worlds

a flock of birds take flight

 

all the phases and faces

that brought us here right now

 

one by one we fly

life is heavy with the leavings

BELINDA SUBRAMAN

BELINDA SUBRAMAN had a ten-year run editing and publishing Gypsy Literary Magazine 1984-1994. She edited books by Vergin' Press, among them: Henry Miller and My Big Sur Days by Judson Crews. She also published Sanctuary Tape Series (1983-89) which was a mastered compilation of audio poetry and original music from around the world. Earlier is this century she had a podcast interview show that was broadcast on three internet stations. A few of the shows are preserved here: HTTPs://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/belinda_subraman In 2020 Belinda began an online show called GAS: Poetry, Art & Music which features interviews, readings, performances and art show in a video format available free at http://youtube.com/BelindaSubraman  An online journal by the same name is here: https://gaspoertyartandmusic.blogspot.com/. Belinda is also a mixed media artist. Her art has been featured in Beyond Words, Epoch, Flora Fiction, Unlikely Stories, Eclectica, North of Oxford, Raw Art Review, El Paso News, Litterateur RW, Setu, Texlandia, The Bayou Review, Red Fez, Chrysalis, Maintenant 16 and many others.  Recently she won 2nd Place in the Sun Bowl Exhibit, the longest running art show in the Southwest (since 1949). She sells prints of her work in her Mystical House Etsy shop. https://www.etsy.com/shop/MysticalHouse?ref=seller-platform-mcnav