attention

attention

attention is the beginning of devotion—Mary Oliver

not furrowed
concentration,
rather wide-open
attending invites
astonishment

the big field exposes
the unexpected—
startled
by the slantwise,
surprised by the clue

it came through me
was unknown to me—
now stripped away
what was in the way
and revealed
devotion’s spore

claim no ownership
plant the spore deep
it is not mine, yet
it’s mine to tend,
nurture and unfold
my task alone

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

how do I live?

how do I live?

Live with skillful nonchalance and ceaseless concern.
— Prajnaparamita Sutra

I awaken each morning
avoid the news
it ignites incessant concern
I’ll bear it later in the day

quiet, I sit with my latte
breathe
remind myself of the truth
we are one body perceived
as eight trillion things

the I that I am holds it all
and is also a mere pinprick
of light—oh, the mystery!

my assignment—
live with skillful nonchalance
to balance ceaseless concern
both are needed
both required

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

drink from the river

drink from the river

this river of light
pours
river of knowing
it pours in us
of
through
and around us

we’re made of this
that isn’t an it
prior to mind
outside
and inside space
outside
and inside time
this holds both

clear light
love
washes us clean
evermore
fresh as
now

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

beacon

beacon

all my life
driven toward
an unknown
unseen goal—
refined, but
I was still seeking
so destined
for suffering

I called it
True North
knew its
inexorable pull
it framed my days
offered dimension
and shading

until
I noticed
stillness within
unchanging
reliable
no shape
no color

the silence
bright and alive
waving hello
nothing to find
nowhere to go
closer than close
already here

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

it sees through

it sees through

what if?
something
is looking from
prior, before and
through your eyes
yet isn’t personal?

an unguarded moment
pure being surveys

no labels
no beliefs
or considerations
just
seeing

cells rearrange

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

love is her teacher

love is her teacher

beyond parents
and grandparents
beyond school or
higher learning
beyond friends’
gentle reminders
and life’s
rugged lessons—
love is her teacher

a thread that guides
her out of the maze
or a pinpoint of light
declaring distance
like markers left
in the wild or wisdom
uncovered in books
love teaches her

it isn’t outside
and can’t ever be lost
nearer than near
prior even to breath
underlying each feeling
thought or sensation
closer than the pulse
in her neck vein
love is her teacher

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

the cycle

the cycle

seeds must fall
for a tree to rise
this is true everywhere—
bulb, sperm, rhizome
the names might
be different
but the plan’s the same
start little grow big
flourish for a while—
then decline sets in
for all of us
even the orb
we live on
coming and going
coming and going
a universal rhythm

resistance is futile
notice instead
what never goes
the big field
steady, abiding
unbroken
in time outside of time
in space outside of space
inviting you
to rest
just here

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

contrapuntal

contrapuntal

the threads of
earthly life—
rain of hot water
bite of her mocha
waft of jasmine
songbirds
at the sunflower
feeder

resting in the big
field of consciousness
knowing
the 10,000 things
are wholly one

miraculous
interplay—
melodies wrap
in and around
never touching
always one
and even that
says too much
of what cannot
be spoken

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

the question

the question

age eleven

dark of the moon
chill air nipped
her bare neck
she lay on
new-mown grass
it’s familiar balm
enveloping her
as she stared at the
black sea of stars
flaming dots of
awakening that
stretched to
the end of time
what made this
intelligent wild
unexpected array?

not where she looked
maybe there were
no answers
which curled her gut
how can a tiny
dot understand
what it lives inside of?
she had to know—
didn’t understand
the search carried her
farther, away—
till an inward
turn and the solitary
walk toward home

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

ground of certainty

ground of certainty

which first?
bad news or good?
in this garden
of embodiment—
the tiniest vole or
Andean condor
spinning planets
and vast black holes
even they birthe and die—
no certainty, not ever

“oh, if only!”
human hearts cry
“surely we can depend
on something?”
well, yes—but not
on some thing
no things are secure
they must come and go
make space for the new
so what is reliable?
the big field of knowing
the cosmos erupts
within “it”—see that

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