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Wet Moments

poems by

Belinda Subraman


photography by

Cheryl Townsend


…as rippled static

on a wind wakened lake

tending tiny life

that trusts our largeness mistaking mirrors for people big in the pants of time finding the secret of grasping is holding hands with ourselves as we search our patterns and cycles for sameness

looking for certainty

of just one thing


My mind is tracing

patterns the window makes. I massage thought

with my tongue.

The tree shadow-dance

behind the window


Clouds roll by

and light comes.

You are here:

light, air, body of thought. The hungry heart



with a naked mind.


I have not walked above the ground here but raked your hills of needles, blended into the noisy woods with motorcycles and deer. Where cacophony meets silence a sea serpent cloud

slowly opens its mouth

to receive a dragon

changing into a man.

I am not alone here

in a hammock in the wind, in the wobbly hands of god.

Dog Day Afternoon

The dog follows me as if a self within always in touch though

sometimes out of reach.

When not an insistent bitch she sleeps at my feet

and beside my thoughts.

I eat the air of her dreams chasing four legged demons and cars. I paint the house with light by stepping outside the sun.

Wet Moments

My hands reach out in water grasping for the soul of the sea. I reach out the way a fish breathes inspired by the trying,

satisfied for moving closer to knowing the flow around me. I cannot float though I am buoyant teasingly held up by liquid hands connected by the DNA of dreaming to my core being

so that I’m okay with sea inside me.


Like sensuous silk

lightly brushing by nipples, deep in the perception

of changing mood

and pin point stimulation, your granite pillar

and lava hands

break a crotch of mirror, melt breasts of stone.

Sensations II

The wind in my head

echoes the cooler.

I am on the slash edge

of comfortable

and deeply chilled.

I will delay change for now and feel sharply.

I will float inside

and eat music.

Zen Sex

I am cycling

through the woods.

In heat, I unbutton

my blouse,

notice some daises


pick three to ride

in my buttonhole.

We all cycle together.

I grow wet.

The bark on the tree

grows hard.

Leaving India

I buy a wooden inlay


symbolizing knowledge,

having four hands,

comfortable worshipping

with her body,

possessing a long tongue behind a closed mouth.

Listening through…

the roofs of youth

to the innocent grandma days with fairies of care

and safety in a blizzard back when red blinking lights in high up towers

were beckons signaling my soul would blossom in the universe and I would know

that buttery country feeling from the earth up to the stars and I would call it love

No Absolutes

The sound of the human voice like the bell ring of metal and crisp air under grey skies—

romantic yet ominous—

Don’t worry about contradictions. No one is innocent.

No one is guilty.

We are all misunderstood even by ourselves.

Yet when we know love

we know everything.

Quantum Friends

Awakened by wind,

thirsty and mystified

by the worm holes of truth. If atoms are probability patterns effected by relationships then truly we infuse

objects with meaning.

A keepsake is a bridge

to the inner and outer worlds. The sensations we feel

sitting next to a friend or stranger

is the reading of energy through shared atmosphere and atoms.

Our friends through cables and computer screens

are as real as the light and sound waves

we alter through thought.

From the ancient Indian metaphor Indra’s net:

Pull one thread

and all else is effected. No act or thought

is secret.

It ripples through the web. Published from Didi Menendez’ Desk for Belinda & Cheryl’s Use online and print Bloomington, IL November 2008