Belinda Subraman

Wayward Wind

My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem That he belongs to the wayward wind, A restless breed, A strange and hardy class. I’ve been with him for two years And now he is dying.

Approaching The Veil, Scientifically

Eyes like stars sparkle and die And cycle into new stars, new eyes. The answer is outside our window. Astronomers look For the beginning And find there is no end. Down to earth There

Between Hurricanes

As we slide into the 3rd world we have created, Running from hurricanes, With our SS# indelibly inked on our arms Storms swell and swallow our control. I am flooded with life review, The

Classical Indian Explanation: Music

past the hippies Past Ravi Shankar Eons before When the first Asian snake Came alive Stiffened with sound Through some empty shell Some hollow wood Some emptiness The snake Was not so much charmed

Yin Yang

At the edge of winter In crisp early March A dull thud of numbness Delays joy and sadness That will make us weep. In the flow of life Every aspect bears its opposite. Between

I remember India: Palm trees, monkey families, Fresh lime juice in the streets, The sensual inundation Of sights and smells And excess in everything. I was exotic and believable there. I was walking through

Book Passion

I dreamed I was eating A book. It was made from 8″ by 12″ slabs One inch deep. It tasted like cheese But cut like watercress. As I chewed I understood. As I looked

The Waiting

Silence has no zen today. Ambient freeway noise From ј mile away, The occasional Friday nighter Coming home 2:00 a. m. Saturday, The appliances with two-tone hums, The bumping and grinding Of an old