a pierced heart

a pierced heart
note to self

your heart is pierced
in myriad ways—
fox kits tumble in the
field, hummers sip
the columbine, you
cuddle a dying friend

be pierced by silence
amazed by the clear
light of knowing—
expect miracles and
see them everywhere
do not fear it, for
a pierced heart lets
the light pour out and in

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

unbound

unbound
note to self

you are bound
to this earth
no doubt, but
there is a way
to untether—
gain quiet insight
from dismantling
and unlearning
the strange way
you were taught
to frame reality

you were coached
and molded to
amplify beliefs and
stories on top of
what actually
transpires—the
how and why
instead of a
clearer what—

peel them off
return to vivid truth
what happened?
instead of inviting
drama, meet and
welcome the feelings
—nothing more

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

nowhere now here

nowhere now here
note to self

your planet lives
at the edge of a
galaxy—some
say in the middle
of nowhere
nowhere now here
it’s all a matter of
space—

your friend says you
can’t put “love”
in a poem—
has love become
commonplace?
hackneyed? cliché?
it cannot be—
love flows out from
that placeless space
eternal, pellucid radiance
into now here
notice that

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

stay rooted to somewhere

stay rooted to somewhere
note to self

we all need home—
the question is, where?
place provides a nest
but for you, being
grounded and awake in your
heart center is prescribed
root yourself there

thank you to Naomi Shihab Nye for the title phrase

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

start close in

start close in

note to self

this is the root of
what we have—
most present
most precious
but never rare—
ever-common
but seldom noticed
by all but a few

consciousness
is not contained
in our bodies
bodies are held
in consciousness
it pours through
vast, unbounded
infinite and eternal—
start close in
live close in

thank you to David Whyte for the phrase “start close in.”

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.

broken and beautiful

broken and beautiful

note to self

oh my God, we are
broken and beautiful
every one of us
admit it or not
“we” includes
bright California poppies
filled with sunshine,
thief in broad daylight,
a knee-shaking kiss,
the rooster shagging
hens in the field,
incessant barking dog

how can it be like this?

how can it not?

our world is
kintsugi, broken—
an earthy bowl
lovingly repaired with
rivers of gold
again
again
and again

thank you Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer for the title.

koan

koan

note to self
“This that we speak of can never be found by seeking, yet only seekers find it.”—Al Bastami, born 804 CE

it haunted
lived inside my chest—
for two years I
leaned into it
reckoned with
the felt meaning
I knew it spoke truth
but couldn’t tell you why
a patient excavation,
I breathed it
pondered,
but not with thought
lobbed it into
the big field
light splintered
the kernel inside
it opened
tight bud to flower
released its perfume,
the aching aroma of love

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.

stubborn heart

I posted the same poem twice last night. Sorry!

stubborn heart

note to self

I suffer a stubborn heart
hard wood grows slowly
this hickory didn’t flower
until leaning into old
but it’s nice here
if I overlook aches and
pains, insomnia and such

and take a risk
give myself a chilla
—a challenge—
at this phase in life
just do it
meet that urge
no room for reticence
commit my stubborn heart
think of it as steadfast
abiding and resolute
nourish it with time
respect
courage
I hear my mother’s voice
use your words

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 field is the only reality

the field is the only reality*

note to self

the big field lies prior
prior to our galaxy
prior to time and space
not a thing
but oh so real

primary
immediate
eternal
infinite
open
transparent
lucid
awake

you can rest in the big field
(the it that isn’t an it)
supported and sustained
yet admire wild paradox
and apparent multitudes

*—Albert Einstein

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
disclaimer: I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—they may never turn into anything more than a clumsy attempt or they might flower.