tincture
Let me bathe my soul in colors; let me swallow the sunset
and drink the rainbow. —Khalil Gibran
when I can’t find
my footing
and my spirits are low
sunrise’s bloom
or sunset’s blaze
slides down my throat
the tincture of grandeur
buoying
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
soak in spring
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine. —Rainer Maria Rilke
some days, when the world
insists on otherwise,
I insist on seeing miracles
peer through day’s haze
note how dust motes
float in light,
our daytime stars
doves gather
ten, now twelve
feast on seed
below the feeder
while the bride of spring
jasmine’s spill,
spreads heady scent
short-sleeved,
sitting in sunshine
warm on winter skin
worry turns to wonder
I drink it in
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
Dekaaz is a contemporary form originated by Rachel Bagby. She says that to complete the creation, you must speak your Dekaaz aloud to another person. Dekaaz is a three-line poem: line 1 has two syllables, line 2 has three syllables, and line 5 has five syllables. It’s a new form that has gained popularity. This poem is made of five Dekaaz.
pup running free for the first time
the joy
abandon
free-spirited pup
long legs
eat up ground
flying, flying fast
most time
spent soaring
airborne above ground
dodging
fast feinting
her giant dog friends
tumbled
rolled in dust
jumps, still game to play
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the call
I yield myself and am borrowed —D. H. Lawrence
this, the gift
to give over until
willingly taken
I wait
stars winking
plenitude inside
creation, a joining
thee and me
source and means
a seeming two yet
one in play
a labyrinth
this web of words
shivers rush
my back
the unknown calls
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
lightkeeper
to tend the flame
feed it twigs
then forage boughs,
my homage—
to kindle warmth
in my small sphere
sometimes it sputters
amidst hard rain
I shield it
with my hands
my heart breathe
embers awake again
this, the work
it calls my name
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
starstruck
split open by stars
filled with their light
from faraway
and eons old
forces at play
so colossal
I quail
yet welcome
their light
and alien touch
gracing my skin
engraving
the word imagine
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
steam rising
in the chill,
a full moon
sets as I soak—
rooster calls for dawn
old muscles soften
become the sweep
of prayers
for you, for those
I do not know
but recognize—
regardless of country
color
or similar dreams
for plentiful food
curious children who
question in school,
know harmony at home
and peace spreading
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
listening
Prayer is what happens when we listen, and wait, beneath words,
for the outline of heaven and earth to emerge. —Wayne Muller
no asking
no thoughts of things
I think I need—
listening
only that
something
takes shape
maybe a kindness
or silhouette
of a poem—
there’s a good chance
the next step
will show up
but what if
it doesn’t?
rest in the silence
and wait
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
this
There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle. —Albert Einstein
for many decades
I slogged through
and didn’t take note
of all the marvels—
that the body knows
to sleep and wake,
and limbs carry me
across the land
I talk with you
and you with me
we comprehend!
then look around—
acorns hold the coding
of how to be a tree
birds can learn to fly
I look with wonder
everywhere
it all comes and goes
notice while you can
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
today
opening the door
I step outside
hear the holy hush
of five a.m. dark
no wind no birds
earth’s pause
anticipating first light’s
early rustle
I imagine
our resident squirrel
rubbing his eyes
sparrows drawing
their beaks from
beneath wings, blinking
then just beyond trees
dove tinge the promise
not wanting to hear
a car door close
or the choir
of tires on the road
I slip back
inside
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 