the gift of friendship

the gift of friendship
note to self

when a friend
comprehends the
deepest plane of you—
the heart space where
no words are required
and delight dances—
you have been given a
precious, shared jewel

time and distance may facet
that gem, augment its grace
how the angles redirect the light
if it’s a true friend, one who
lives in being with you
that jewel cannot be harmed—
it is safe, reliable, eternal

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—please understand that many will be rewritten.

tear off the cloak

tear off the cloak
note to self

you put it there yourself
to percolate blunt truth
into acceptable story
it seems rash to live
without it—until you do
and you look back
wondering—why?

it’s leans to bittersweet
turn toward your lot
whether a cascade of
griefs, ailing child, or
lost possibility
we’re given a fistful
for our very own—
we all have something

tear off the cloak that
served as your shield
it didn’t hide much
you only thought it did
live raw—turn your face
to the pinging rain
feel the chill roll
down your cheeks
let grief break you wide
love all of it because
this, this is what you have

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—please understand that many will be rewritten.

my father’s closet

(this was my father’s birthday—he would be 108 today)

my father’s closet

I don’t know how
to write about my father
forty-four years gone
he’s still a puzzle
a large, lonely man
who drank too much
and hid it well

but I recall the bouquet
of his walk-in closet
musky and male
suits and sport coats
tidy, shoes polished
till they reflected light
and ties—so many ties
myriad colors, wool and silk
I liked to sit in there
under the jackets and
drink in his spice
it all seemed so foreign

I wanted to know him but
that was not possible
his signature—arctic
wiry hair, his pride
amidst balding friends—
he carried a briefcase
bought plush cars with
skin-soft seats
but what were his thoughts?
his cares?
his dreams?

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.

stardust

stardust

note to self

pour in
pure consciousness
veil with stardust
and pond muck

we are part cosmos
part earth slop
undoing ourselves
with rapacious speed
why would we
want to save us?

a splash of ingenuity, yes
but floods of ferocity
fires of venom
maybe worse
disregard toward our
dear earth and its beings

yet I pray for
the hope that waits
at the tar black
bottom of Pandora’s box

may stardust
enlighten pond muck
may that box
slam shut returning
our human family to
civility and kindness

may we cherish one another
because of our differences
add back the dove
the olive branch
and most of all
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.

surrender

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.

slender moments

slender moments

note to self

suspended moments—
vivid, lucid
unambiguous

your Prius shoved
upside down dead bug
wheels spinning

he sauntered down
the path—heart
recognition flames

thrown from a
horse, floating in
air—time arrests

in less than a breath
beliefs, a card house
exposed, collapse

you are cast
into the big field
give over, soften

unambiguous
vivid, lucid—those
slender moments

thank you to Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer for “slender moments”

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 indifferent warming light

the indifferent warming light
note to self

it’s not personal
oh, you wanted to believe it is
love is simply love
wild and bright, a warming light
impartial and unconcerned
it belongs to no one in particular
it belongs to everyone
you flailed and railed—
two years metabolizing
it’s just not personal

thank you to David Whyte for the phrase “the indifferent warming light.”

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 owls sing

the owls sing

languid in the hot tub
late late at night
the owls sing for me
two mated pairs
high in the neighborhood
oak and redwood
calling to each other

they know I’m there
listening—
companions as I soak and
ponder how things are
their sonorous tones
a haunting music
both intimate and lonely

am I eavesdropping
on a love song?
the state of their world?
are they discussing the hunt?
is it a partnership dance
and I am their witness?
their sentience
sweet company

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.

joining point

joining point

note to self

the joining point of
earth and sky
unburdens disquiet
softens worry
tunes my heart
what is it about that line
my eyes can trace?

where the ineffable
meets the seen?
it’s the edges
that fascinate—
mind abuts mind
lip meets lip
hearts collide

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.

touchstone

touchstone

note to self

in the presence
of a fresh breath,
today, amidst strife,
news so disturbing
I cannot watch
but know about anyway,
it trickles in the back door—
Ukraine’s destruction,
rolled back freedoms,
climate misery,
election madness—
still
joy flushes through
how can that be?
how can it not be?

wonder doesn’t arise from
this world—it seeps in
from the big field,
a welcome touchstone—
surprises, delights for
an instant or a day
the blessing of a passionflower,
their five-fingered hearts
begging bees, jasmine climbing
the arch in our front yard
fragrance scenting the air
fresh potatoes unearthed
soil clinging—a bounty
thirty-nine pounds!
carrots, too, their
salmon selves slipping
from their bed.
soak in this joy

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.