"Dia de los Muertos," "Diagnosis of Liberal Angst," and "Dissection of a Thought Balloon"

Dia de los Muertos

Every twist and turn,
psychotic thrill
and ghostly energy
find their way into
the movies of our lives.
Each sequel better than the last.
Each year the art better.

I function in a senior reality.
The future is obvious.
I choose to Be 
awash and overwhelmed
with the maps through time,
a spiritual topography.

The part of me that felt apart
is now at one with Being, softly.
I let go of so much, willingly.

The first half of our years
energy heightens
and the last half it eases
into a fuel of memories, wisdom
and a desire to beam back
love for Life, for what is, for Being.

We celebrate life in the cemetery.
We eat with the dying.
We laugh with the dying.
We are the dying.



Diagnosis of Liberal Angst

Pangs in our chests
from sorrow and dread.
Hitler happened.
Trump is happening.
Slaughter has always happened,
populations targeted
for government sanctioned abuse
while the poor blame the poorer,
the Blacks, Muslims, the Jews,
always the Other.
Be afraid. Stay afraid.
Vaccinate and medicate.
Stockpile guns and food.
A civil war is coming.
Families will be divided.
The refusing-to-kneel and hem-kiss radicals
will be sold to farms and foreigners,
their children raised into conscription.
We are flying backwards
to regimentation,
people as dollar signs only,
to gross misunderstanding
of the interdependence of Life,
back to serfdom and the Realm,
severe punishment for trivial offenses 
back to the Church and State as one,
public shaming, back to a life we flew from
grew from and finally found peace with
only to be cast back to our childhood
when authoritarian parents
were hitting us with sticks
and calling it love.



Dissection of a Thought Balloon

I sense my grandmothers.
I am now the age
they always seemed to be
with stern blood understanding
once removed from the sting of judgment.

Wisdom nods unconventionally 
seasoned by tolerant love,    
compassionate wishes
ancestral salutes 
through antique scents of creaking floors,
of mulch and cannabis. 

The breeze heavy with Earth’s kiss
reminds me the trees were my friends
their nuts and leaves my toys.

Childhood obsessions,
dreams of desire
turn inside out.

Autumn freshness
wombs inward
toward the fire.



Belinda Subraman

Beside writing and publishing for decades, Belinda Subraman was a Registered Nurse for 14 years, mostly in hospice. She’s also an artist working in ink and acrylics.  She’s a member of several drumming groups and has been playing African rhythms for over five years taught directly from African masters.  She also has a daily yoga practice and a book of poetry called Left Hand Dharma published by Unlikely Books in 2018. 


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Thursday, December 8, 2016 - 10:57