Wet Moments

Belinda Subraman Cheryl Townsend
& photography by poems by

…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 stops. Clouds roll by and light comes. You are here: light, air, body of thought. The hungry heart wrestles ideas 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 waving, 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 Saraswati, 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 www.mipoesias.com

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