the indifferent warming light

the indifferent warming light
note to self

it’s not personal
oh, you wanted to believe it is
love is simply love
wild and bright, a warming light
impartial and unconcerned
it belongs to no one in particular
it belongs to everyone
you flailed and railed—
two years metabolizing
it’s just not personal

thank you to David Whyte for the phrase “the indifferent warming light.”

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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Filed under Awakening, Daily reminders, feelings, Love, memoir, Musings, Non-duality, nonduality, notes to self, Poetry, Rupert Spira, Surrender, Truth

the owls sing

the owls sing

languid in the hot tub
late late at night
the owls sing for me
two mated pairs
high in the neighborhood
oak and redwood
calling to each other

they know I’m there
listening—
companions as I soak and
ponder how things are
their sonorous tones
a haunting music
both intimate and lonely

am I eavesdropping
on a love song?
the state of their world?
are they discussing the hunt?
is it a partnership dance
and I am their witness?
their sentience
sweet company

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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troughs and waves

troughs and waves

note to self

that’s life—
dips and hilltops
troughs and waves
a skin-and-bone
roller coaster
sometimes free fall
it can buffet, a sideways
bluster, other times
a zephyr—
delicate and free

rarely tranquil

when days roll by
smoothly for a while—
writing flows, friends
thrive, my earth suit
functions as it should—
I can feel it coming
barometric pressure
behind my heart
heaviness nearby and
I wonder—what, how
and when? never why

will I bear it well?

I don’t pray for specifics—
we’re given our share
from the big field
I pray for insight and grace
sometimes on my knees
often snuggled in bed—
for those I love, I ask
for the highest good
and I pray, oh I pray
for surrender

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the thread

First, a comment about process. I don’t know where these poems come from. What a mystery! I stare at the screen and wait. Usually it’s the middle of the night. If I wait long enough, feel deeply enough, something generally happens. Pondering what I’ve just written, I fiddle. A lot. I refine words, try different line breaks, should it have stanzas? Must I turn it upside down? It’s not lonely work, but it is work alone. Eventually, my body says, “Stop.”

Some poems are a wrestling match, and I return again and again for days. Weeks. Longer. Others show up and I’m satisfied with the form. It says what I intended. Some are strange, and I think, “What is this?”

If you’re a poet, what’s your process? Please share in the comments. I’m curious to know.

the thread

note to self

you were young when
you noticed the end
curious, you picked it up
fine—gossamer, even
tugging might snap it, so you
followed the garnet silk instead—
over under around and through
—then you dropped it

in the myth of
Ariadne and Theseus,
he found his way through
the labyrinth home—
an arduous journey, by
following a slender red thread

diligent, moving with care
you sought the thread’s
end that you’d lost—
a few years passed
finally, there it was!
in lush, native terrain
you picked it up again, faithful
to the path it announced—you too
remembered your way home

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fault lines

fault lines
note to self

brush by delicate brush
a painstaking excavator
I uncover the skeleton
of what he did—I was
only four years old
that’s faraway past
yet it carved fault lines
in who I might become
cautious instead of creative

every touch leaves signs—
elephants snap limbs
monks arouse hearts
with their clarity
soldiers blast cities to rubble
ants stumble while hefting
a giant crumb—each
singular action shifts
the bones of our world

pick petals from the daisy
it matters, it doesn’t matter
it matters, it doesn’t
both are holy true—
meet the long ago
metabolize and mend
admire fault lines everywhere
trace with care and gold

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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this day

this day

this day begins thick-eyed
poems stripped sleep
at midnight, slipped into
bed at two—writing hours
where’d they go?
fruitful with not much on
the page—exercised the
muscle, stretched and feinted
words and phrases deleted
added moved deleted again—
in the morning
a homemade mocha
jumpstarts the engine
thank heavens I don’t have to
explain myself, but if I did
a shrug of the shoulders
this is how it is
expand and pare, expand and
pare until finally, it can rest—
until tomorrow

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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Filed under feelings, memoir, mind, Musings, Poetry, writing

fissures

fissures
note to self

look for them—
fractures where
the light pours in
you need that light
like lentil soup and
seeded bread on
a savage day
light to warm the
bones, tune the
heart and clarify
the mind, that light
the pure light—
look for fissures inside

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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Filed under Awakening, Kashmiri Shaivism, memoir, mind, Musings, Non-duality, nonduality, notes to self, Poetry, spirituality

joining point

joining point

note to self

the joining point of
earth and sky
unburdens disquiet
softens worry
tunes my heart
what is it about that line
my eyes can trace?

where the ineffable
meets the seen?
it’s the edges
that fascinate—
mind abuts mind
lip meets lip
hearts collide

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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requiem for the earth

requiem for the earth
note to self

WWII marker at Britain’s
Canterbury Cathedral in
the ruins, granite chiseled
“Father, forgive them for
they know not what they do”
I stood desolate

we full well know
the havoc we wreak on
our beloved earth, our home
the only parachute we have
we want what we want more—
our comforts—convinced the
worst won’t unfurl, yet it’s here
predicted fifty years ago
when there was time
to mend our savage ways
I too am culpable—drive and
cozy near the gas fire

faster, more dire than foreseen—
cat-5 twisters, desperate
flooding, devastating drought
and oh, the fires!
remember how plentiful
skippers, painted ladies
and tiger moths? no
sustaining habitat to feed—
too many of us

how do we create
a requiem for the earth?

I cast my love and warmth—
for the gnarled oak, a century old
its weighty branches pulled toward
ground—the woodpecker’s
flash of red as it drills the bark
the innocent babes born now
on this weeping earth
for my aging body, gravity
calling me home

oh! sing a sacred song
sing it with my whole heart

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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retreat hut

retreat hut

note to self

you don’t attend church
that stone-steepled place
your sanctuary is inside
an internal retreat hut
you do attend there
on a regular basis—
not only on Sundays
every single day
many times a day
in fact, you live there
rest in the big field
luminous realm
offer gratitude
remember
breathe
listen
pray
be

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more or they might flower.

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Filed under Awakening, Daily reminders, memoir, Musings, Non-duality, nonduality, notes to self, Poetry, Silence, spirituality, Truth