one become two
in this corporeal world
of knowing revealed
the sweep between us
a most sacred ground
I prop the door open
breathe air washed clean
by a day of hard rain
even daffodils bow
as I walk my locale
I greet neighbors
as friends—smiles
and warm wishes
for a marvelous day
they may think
we’re separate
I don’t mind at all
for I know the truth
we are one become two
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the bouquet of home
age 15
sharp apple green
sails up my nose
in the spiky soft
I throw open my arms
watch thunderheads
billow, then build
new formations
dig fingers into
softening earth
the bouquet home
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
bridge night
age eleven
after their friends
went home, they
dismissed devotion
made fun of faith—
from my place
on the steps
I overheard
my vessel of respect
already chipped
shattered into shards
I crafted a shell
and tucked inside
they mustn’t see
mustn’t know
but I couldn’t hide—
how to shroud
what’s essential?
my core,
misunderstood
what had always been so
now known to me
a tender recognition
no forthcoming guidance
I adjusted my shoulders
my job
my job alone
finding my way
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
ordinary moment
cloud color fades—
now my husband
the family cook
stirs what’s simmering
before settling
in his recliner
the aroma wraps us
we share a ginger beer
crackers and smoked
oysters
chat about the day
as we have 12,000 times
he rises to check the stove
brushes my shoulder
with his fingertip
oh, the commonplace
how many more?
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
new eyes
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking
new landscapes, but in having new eyes. —Marcel Proust
the urge to travel
has flown
instead, I yearn
to stay home
rooted in place
see here
with new eyes
how rain
spots the walkway
and trees bend
low in the wind
thirsty roots
in prayerful praise
after an endless
season of dry
sodden leaves
fading from bright
mute my footsteps
softening the season
the apple tree clinging
to its fruit, still bright
in the heart of winter
everywhere I look
crisp, washed clean
made new
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
bursts and squalls
drops
in the downspout
then a steady pattering
soothes me
so hard to rise in rain
my body yearns
to be snug
in my duvet’s
womb, drop off,
drift in early
morning dreams,
but rhythm
is my ground,
what frames my day
chilly air
two feet on the floor
muffled furnace roar
I reach for slippers
and fleece-lined shirt
head to my desk to write
words like rain
start, stop,
start again
slide down the page
in little bursts and squalls
echoing outside
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
failed?
pitching the newspaper
onto the floor
I stare out the window
thinking,
we’re a failed species
then, the postwoman
brings mail to my door
and with a kind smile,
hands me an letter
with hand-drawn flowers
addressed in familiar
cursive—fifty-year friend
pressing it to my heart
I thank our mail person
wish her a fine day
sit on the stoop
in the kiss of a sun ray
and read my friend’s
steadying words
I feel you in my heart,
avoid the news,
notice small joys instead
how the Daphne’s
ready to bloom,
and remember to watch
for billowing clouds
with a child’s eye
she knows me,
my friend
but, is it enough
to keep me
out of the trough
today?
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
it’s the simple
light dusting the horizon
early songbird rustle
my dog’s squeaky yawn—
ordinary pleasures
and sidestepping
dreaded news
open my day
later, I’ll engage
with the world
feel the gravity
of its yoke
but first,
set the tone
close to home
my husband’s long hug
sweet heart communion
jaunty dancing dog
dappled pink clouds
on our first-light walk
down to the field
where she runs
and boxes
with her friends
in this,
our chaotic
war-torn world
it’s the simple joys
that buoy and carry me
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
be happy
Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.
—Omar Khayyam
a lesson I learn
again, again
not train tracks
into the future
nor train rides
into the past
this
my one life
5 a.m.
outside, opaque dark
glass reflects
the light behind
do not let the mouse
follow the news
either old
or rumored
news is not now
breath is
feel its ease
in, out, in again
breathe, now
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
morning joy
the foam atop
the mocha I made,
dusted with cocoa—
my first morning
ecstasy
the sweetness,
then cleaning the rim
with my tongue
so the mug
won’t leak when
I close the top
second euphoria—
knowing my keyboard
is safe from
the inevitable spill
maybe a few drops
but not a flood
like once before…
oh, small joys
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 