toy squeaks

toy squeaks

to the left of my desk chair
a rhythmic squeaking
my un-housetrained pup
is gnawing her starman—
soft and five-pointed
the fourth dog to work it
she discovered the squeaker
last night in her crate
smart girl

no starman at bedtime

my rhythm’s been broken
and quiet is shattered
I’ll write with distraction
until she matures—
but here is the upside
she’s a sweet cuddlebug
I’ll trade some months
of disorder
for a decade of affection

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

daylight

daylight

I wake into day
instead of the India ink
that precedes first light
overslept
missed dark’s quiet
missed the first breath
of light dusting the sky
it’s not even seven
the day’s in full swing
where is my quiet?
that still point before
the world awakens
the dark well
waiting for me
to sink down
drench in
its luscious hush

the gift today
asks for welcome
doves cooing
texts dinging
flash of bird wing
and thieving squirrel
no dark well
instead sunshine
kisses the treetops
good morning!

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

Jasmine aka Jazz

Jasmine aka Jazz

fling-legged and blonde
with a coat called broken
curious brown eyes
and a wispy cream beard

eight months old
she’s never lived in a house
wire kennels for a staghound
meant to hunt

her people got sick
rehomed all five pups
without her permission
life changed

scared herself in the reflection
of the dark television
but she settled on the couch
and watched everything

she’s as tall as my desk
pokes her nose here and there
checks a thumb drive
book piles and paperclips

finally she stops whining
lies down, crosses paws
the adjustments are huge
now a writer’s accomplice

feast

feast

in the longer view,
a finger snap
and life is done—
savor the spread
that is yours alone
the benediction of early light
and holy kiss of dusk’s dying sun
share what you can
spill paint onto murals
and let words flood—
your face thrown back,
spin in spring rain
the world needs you,
your voice, your scope
none other

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

stop thinking

stop thinking

I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence,
and the truth comes to me.
—Albert Einstein

I can’t “stop” thinking
the mind just runs
a banal and ceaseless train
yet I can slip beneath,
dive into bracing light
thoughts will play up top
I let them romp

once beneath
viewpoint fades—
such reprieve!
I rest in that light’s sling
sway in solitude and be,
just be
restored, refilled
with streaks of inspiration
I drift back up
accede to thought again

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

huge silence

huge silence

There is a huge silence within each of us, beckoning
us back into itself.
—attributed to Meister Eckhart

it’s always there
waiting to be noticed
the fathomless well
calling me inward
into the heart
of the heart
I swim down
deeper
find silence’s support
how it buoys
how it thirsts,
welcoming
those who remember—
held by the depth
thankful, I bow

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

breath

breath

some take for granted
this rosary called breath
each inbreath an invocation
every outbreath a prayer
prayer in
prayer out
quiet susurration

I sit in silence with
generous light returning
the robin’s early song
my easy breathing—
no entreaties
no words at all

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

the missionary and the dervish

the missionary and the dervish

she’s elderly
I’m only aged
seventeen years
between us
we knew upon
first meeting
we’d be fine friends
missionary emeritus,
retired dervish
antipodal beliefs?
not so—
on our separate paths,
broken, wounded
flayed open by our lives
both ran aground,
set up bivouac
and stayed—
love won

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

without a name

without a name

I greet first light
without a name,
without naming
slip my arm
around your waist
hug you,
snug into warmth,
breath and balm—
one whole

a finger snap of time
distinguishing begins,
splits this from that
hawk from sky
deer from field
me from you,
grateful scent remains

This photo is from the Barnstorming Blog, which I’ve followed for fifteen years.
Thank you, Emily Gibson. https://barnstorming.blog/

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

sponge hole heart sutra

sponge hole heart sutra

I wring soapy water
from the sponge
struck
by the marvel of holes

how sponge soaks
up nectar or goop or juice
and holds it in hollows
suspended

and worms bore tunnels
in loam so aliment and air
percolate—without openings
soil will die

hearts require hollows,
chambers like sponge
so they can fill
and squeeze and fill again

which carries me directly
to the shoreless shore
sponge—emptiness
sponge—form

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