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
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