Belinda Subraman has been writing and publishing for years. She 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. 

Belinda has been published in 100s of magazines, printed and online, academic and small presses. She has a Master of Arts from California State University.  Her archives are housed at University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. Her latest book is Left Hand Dharma from (Unlikely Books).

In 2020 Belinda began an online show and journal called GAS: Poetry, Art & Music which features interviews, readings, performances and art shows available free at http://youtube.com/BelindaSubraman and https://gaspoertyartandmusic.blogspot.com 

Today’s Attempt

A scarf hides a biopsy bruise

on the throat while I smile

as if my dreams came true

and choking was not an issue.



Walking is painful

but I must keep moving.

I don’t want to lose fitness 

and my bones turn to dust

before the grave.



Patches, salves and pills

take the edge off

after yoga fails.



Creating sometimes helps.

Paint on my fingers

reminds me I’m trying

and these aching words.



I can type today

delete tomorrow.

We’ll call this an exercise

…on a heating pad.

Why It’s Hard to Visit

Maybe it’s the the years of calling my poems silly

and useless because the lines didn’t rhyme

and stealing my outgoing submissions

from inside the mailbox

before I was old enough to drive or leave home.

It’s no wonder I took my poems 

when I left in a hurry.

Everything I left behind, mother 

threw in the woods to rot.



Or maybe it’s because she complains 

when I call at the appointed time

that she’s eating or brushing her teeth

or her son next door is calling and she’s got to go

or maybe because, even though she has help

I must wash the sheets, clean the room 

and move the junk she’s stored there

before I can rest after 9 hours

of layovers and connections. 



Or maybe it’s how she broke 

my cherished records

outside my bedroom door

my only place of refuge 

and the music that kept me alive.



Or maybe it was the nights I sat 

with my dying father in the hospital

but when I came home to rest 

she made me vacuum, dust 

and cook instead of sleep.



I was born in the boonies 

where the male elders 

were mostly alcoholics

and the women, bitter with religion 

raised daughters as domestic slaves

and punching bags for disappointments.



How bad she must have had it    (continued)

to have been so hard on me

and how unaware I was

raising daughters on my own.

May they forgive me.

Zen

death is lights out

like a coma or surgery

but we won’t wake up

the self imposed suffering

of not mattering enough

to live forever 

in movies, books or legend

any lasting alter of love

degrades our lives with pangs



we are comforted knowing

our dead loved ones 

will reach for us as we die

hallucination or hope

we like it



we choose to believe 

in magic and forever

to smooth the jagged edge

and illusion of finality

one of many realities

we fail to discern

as every molecule 

around us prickles

beams life force

sparks

and radar’s connection



we clutch

still we fade away



into the cycle

of mattering



where everything is enough