cup of oneness

cup of oneness

imbibing the cup
cast some friends out,
called new ones in—
this, a necessary
purge

it bulldozed
old beliefs,
flipped my view
upside down
and rearranged

my very core—
in the rubble
of myself,
I dusted
off remains

reclaimed a skeleton
of kindness, found
bones of gratitude—
now, drink
some more

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the waiting times

the waiting times

every day an illness
or a leaving, so unlike
five decades ago
celebrations, storks,
gifts and births
now death lingers,
leaning against
the street post outside
my friends’ homes,
not even in the shadows—
slouchy and bold
flicking an ash
waiting

no, not that—outdated!
with the snap of a finger
I send him away
it’s the Friend who waits
curious, playful
ready to ramble
happy to walk us home
no hat
certainly no smoke
trailing in the air

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

reminders

reminders

it used to be,
in corners of my home,
little altars everywhere—
Buddhas, polished
stones and crystals,
Ramana Maharishi’s
secret smile, a baby’s
lock of hair—
and on my arm,
olivewood beads
smoothed and oiled
with regular use
the names of God
a prayerful susurration

I recall the day
my mouth went still
crystals rehomed outside
one Buddha sits alone
serene in stone
inward altars now, no
outward signs desired
crystals no more revered
than this thumb drive
or pottery mug of pens
that live on my desk
each thing miraculously
given, each one sacred

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the price

Note: WordPress will no longer allow me to schedule posts. I’ve apparently
gone over their limit of 400. So instead of my poems being sent out automatically

at 12:15 a.m., I’m going to have to manually post them just before I go to bed,
between 9:30–10 p.m.

the price

are you willing
to pay the price?
the big field asks

it takes
the personal,
dark or private,
unwinds what is
crooked or mistaken—
your sorry thoughts
misplaced longings
and desires

the big field
is incandescent
it burns clean,
like cautery, all
that’s labeled
mine
and kindles wonder
in its place

do not be afraid
there is nothing
to lose—

the first narcissus
opens in the chill
tiny, bold and bright
a touch of sunshine
in the gulf of winter

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the dark

the dark

I know the dark—
the anaconda
coils my body
throttles my breath

drowning for air
I tear at the thing
bloody my hands
wear myself out
it could take me

I turn toward
the dark, drink it in
move through it
tune my ear
is that a note?

finally the faintest
gossamer of chant
the coils writhe
and fall away
I gulp air, flee
toward the song

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

precious cargo

precious cargo

our hearts—
not the complex
meaty thing
but capacity—
how the fox
forgoes food so
her kits are fed
even as skin
sculpts her ribs

how the youngster
slips piggy-bank
coins—
his whole savings—
in the blind man’s
mug or a worn-weary
woman pulls her
sister in close

we can shine
our heart light
and set
the world ablaze—
is this duty or gift?
either way,
meant to be

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

refrains

refrains

owls hoot,
refrains float
in the dark—
communion
between mates,
I am here, are you?
their calls meld time
into timeless
accompany moonrise,
consort with those
who attend—
conversations that
soften the night

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

what is this?

what is this?

head thrown back
she stares at
the field of stars
billions
upon billions

where are we?
are we a lonely
planet at the edge
of an unknown galaxy?
or in communion?

a star falls,
or appears to—
its flash of light
in the still expanse
what happened,
really?
she cannot know—

hooting owls
in conversation
guide her home

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

feel for it

feel for it

At the end of my suffering there was a door—Louise Glück

turn around
dive in and down
no need for worry
nothing is safe
be curious instead—
feel around for
your inner
knots or gnarls
when you find one
soften your intent
sit with the snag
become its ally,
playmate and consort
it wants you—
you are its way
through

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.