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The Literary Review

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Disorderly Speaking

I cling to
illusions of comfort
from voices
channelled through cable
on pet TV
controlled remotely

the sting
of beloved dead ones
breathing anachronistically
our friends who never knew us
soul pinched
by attachment

distraction from pain
triggers for the senses
connective
electricity
from the universe

learning and leaning in
then freeze-stroke panic
role switching white noise
shielding knowledge
of the war within

neurons burst
submissively
inhaling through the veil

I may never know
what this is
but I bow
and keep the door open

Belinda Subraman__

Science

Science is the earth dying,
acid rain, carcinogenic crops,
draught, money driven ruin,
galaxies beyond galaxies
black holes of power
and mystery.

It’s history
like nesting dolls,
reveals stages of being,
our doing, not doing,
and poisoning
the depths of life.
It’s not a trend that is in
or going through a phase
or way to slow business
of billionaires and
it’s covered by one strong mother.

It does not disappear
when you disbelieve.
More real than religion,
science is like God unfolding
an ultimate, ethereal essence
that puts man-written holiness
in a shallow fairytale grave
where men walk with dinosaurs
and eat fruit that shames.

Belinda Subraman __

Valentine’s Day

Love is a long, bright scarf
in the wind
a hat losing itself to the streets
the inner flap of your loose jacket shining
nature tossing your hair in my face
kissed with a tease of Spring and stamen
buzzed with co-existence with bees.

I salute our flavors our
multi-tongued love
respect for creation
our various hues
of artistic expression.

Love is realizing
it is always a test.
Every second counts.
“Nothing is hidden
in the eyes of the Lord”
and those eyes are Ours.

Everything lasts forever
and everything changes.

A mist lifts
and gifts a rainbow.

Belinda Subraman__

What a Picture is Worth

I want to write
create an atmosphere
but the alphabet fails me.
I approach color instead.
My hand moves over a substrate
holding a brush, a cotton swab
a steal ball on a stick
or nothing at all
just hands manipulating color
like a child before it’s criticized
back to “normal.”
I am happy in this play
and continue until satisfied
then I share with you
my excitement with color
my poetic depiction
my one thousand words.

Belinda Subraman__