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.
threshing floor
my beliefs fell
away in an instant
I watched them
flutter
to the floor
four decades
of practice—
wasted?
how would life
work without my
card house?
how to navigate
the unknown
and wide-open
now?
no more praying
to something
outside
or chanting
for peace of mind
even meditation
is not separate
from being, doing
or breath
first rage erupted,
months passing
before angst dissolved
so much wasted time!
then the idea of time
fell away
useful for living
but clearly not true—
a flood of joy
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the hot seat
2010-2012
she notes her patterns
most lead to anguish
she must perch on the seat
sit in her stuff and
unwind the past—it’s
daunting and painful
and also the way
when facing what
burns her, her fresh
stare unnerving, she
slips off the seat and
back into her drama
familiar and repeated
her thoughts are not true
they mislead and trip her
committed to face this
she clambers back on
to see through the lie
she so carefully erected
turns over rocks
yanks out the roots
the closer she draws
to her core confusion
like volcanic lava
the hotter it gets
her shame almost
swamps her until
she sees through—
she bows to the seat
knows she’ll return
oh! this being human
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
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.
keeping spirits up
note from self
the work—
applying what she
knows to be true
kindness required
there’s injury, pain
life’s a slog
every minutia
a class in attention
he makes the mocha
she knocks it over
floods the counter
rivers the drawer
spatters oak floor
one-handed, she
snatches the laptop
out of the wave
unscathed
chance for harsh
words—none
or blame
doesn’t happen
they work
in tandem
she “I’m sorry”
he “no need”
they remake
the mocha
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
on fire
she borrowed an arm for a lifetime
attached to a body, of course
it’s nearing the end of its tenure
and now it is hounding with heat
the wrist is a livid bonfire
flames licking and curling inside
coals glow red in the shoulder
there’s a white pill
for muscles and tissue
for jangling nerves, a
red-and-white capsule to take
they only pare aside edges—
the urge is to push pain away
but that turns it into a “thing”
so she draws it close, yes
unpacks what it is—precious and
and tender—a near-and-dear friend
melding titanium and tissue
it’s so busy in there
she dives deep under pain
finds more primal sensation
the clean tingle of being alive
lamp unto yourself
note to self
this is the work—
to become a lamp
unto yourself
notice, you already are
it’s a chilla, a test
and shows up again
and again—a new
region on the spiral
to scout and survey
everyone’s task—
collect and harmonize
radiance so it sustains
but doesn’t sear—
be a sprig of light
humane, balanced, kind
and warm, yes, that too
this is the way
—the Buddha is reported to have spoken the title phrase
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
Disclaimer: These are drafts—not final versions.
let it go
note to self
oh, girl—
remember Robert
Bly’s proverbial
five-mile-long bag
filled with the rubble
of living—annoyance
umbrage, anxiety—
give it up, all of it—
piecemeal hurts more
you know that
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
accept the weave
note to self
you’re assigned parents
and a body—no choice there
you show up on the planet—
where am I? now what?
who are these people?
accept the weave—
that doesn’t mean you
can’t snitch when your
cousin spits, reach
for college, a compelling job
or a thoughtful relationship
but resisting what’s given
will only yield anguish—
life is aching enough
without piling on more
it’s a fine demarcation
between acceptance
and submission
what you’re given is
simply a starting place
what lies before you is a
puzzle to parse—only you can
solve it—where are the corners?
are these the boundaries?
what am I?
with thanks to Susan Adelle for the title phrase
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.
surrender
note to self
the colicky infant
yields to the long-braided child
the sulky teen gives way
to the brisk, busy woman
she cedes to a bowed back
and wild egret hair
it’s the way of things
so achingly evident yet
the carnal body squirms
capitulates
yes, to all of it
there is no other concession
of course, be brave
stand and face the bully
care for the injured wren
but most of all
love one another
then, like Beowulf
we must yield
the leasehold
of our days
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.
the heart of the matter 