the thorn

the thorn
note from self

she sucks
on her thumb
the wound
doesn’t bleed
but the rosebud
embedded
its armor

it throbs

she locates a pin
cures it in spirits
bites on her lip
and digs
the whole thorn
needs to come out
or will fester

so it is with
misunderstanding
knife deep
but with care
the full root
must be plucked
or else it regrows
and could claim her

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

Fasciation

Fasciation
(not fascination)

when branches abrade
bark into cambium
twine imperfectly
meld and grow
into one—
the urge for union is
inscribed on the forest

just so
cats cozy together
dogs sneak onto our bed—
in 10,000 ways
we long for the other
all seeking to merge
in home ground

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

beyond

beyond
note from self

to ken what she is
beyond name and form
this is sweet ruin

no choice in the matter
she came in this way and
was set on a little-known path

to be out of step with
most other people
feels peculiar and strange

it can be lonely but she
meets it with joy and
takes solace in knowing

oh, sweet ruin
name of an anthem—
see home come home be home

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

branded

branded
note from self

she received an order
from destiny—was
branded by love and
the name of her God
right on her chest
over her heart
she remembers the
scent of the searing
the throb of the burn
and the crater it left
others can’t see it
but she knows it’s there
it requires submission
to all that was asked
give it up let it go
and be free

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the portal

the portal
note from self

from a young age
she knew this was true
the heart is a door
not just a functional pump
keeping body alive—
the metaphorical one
the gateway to knowing
to opening
to wonder
she wanted to share
were others aware?
not her atheist parents
that was for sure
she went clandestine
tried her best to fit in
til she could leave home
and find her own tribe—
it took fifty years and
a wandering path
to discover her home
is closer than close
her heart is
a portal to here

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

quench

quench
note from self

be thirsty
this is primary
a thirst that insists
that requires quenching
your spirit is pining
to notice home
home is not lost
it’s not a family farm
it has no “place” at all
in fact, it’s right here
closer than close
it’s just overlooked
get very quiet
ask yourself—
what doesn’t change?
that is your home
your true safety net
be thirsty for that

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the bud

the bud

before she could talk
her heart a tight bud
not like a rose bullet
refusing to bloom
this needed touch
refuge required
to begin to unfurl

two decades went by
until she left home
found a heart tribe
where she could fit in
under kind care
the heartwork began

fifty years later
her heart’s open flower
she shares her abundance
with those nearby
they all grow a garden
awash in warm blossom
and have made a
brilliant bouquet

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

our corner

our corner

note from self

search the net
no, not that one
Indra’s net instead
our corner’s ablaze
brilliant jewels abound
their facets dazzle—
one kindles another
as infectious as Covid
and maybe as lethal
but oh! such a difference
a variant that’s healthy—
a new kind of deadly
calamitous to suffering
malignant for meanness
unwinds confusion
overflows with mercy
let it spread
let it spread
let it spread

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

open-hearted

open-hearted

for Fran Claggett-Holland:
“We live within one another’s grace”

he eased swelling
teased mending with
his listening hands
she proffered a healing
tuning-fork tenderness

retired PT heard angry
elbow cry out for support
they gave of themselves
freely, with love
for we are one body
appearing as many

so with her mentor—
saw a poet in hiding
Fran crooked a knuckle
“it’s safe” she invoked
without saying a word

there’s work for
the hurt one, the
bounty breathtaking
we are one body
appearing as many