speck
I am dust
in sunlight
a mere speck
within the blaze
lit and nourished
I am flaming suns
black holes
sculptor of spells
and what holds
it all
here, the enigma—
don’t grapple
like before,
not this time
let paradox rest
watch the squirrel
munch seeds,
deer graze
as light spills
over the field
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
don’t borrow trouble
it’s an old saying,
don’t borrow trouble
I used to lie awake
and imagine dire
scenes—my son
in bullies’ hands
or worse—as though
the very picturing
could ward them off
it doesn’t save
us or them, this
perseveration,
it never quite happens
as I picture—
so why conjure
fifty ways your child
might come to sorrow
and all the suffering
that brings to you
instead, slip outside
tip your head until,
in the chill, dense dark,
you find the Milky Way—
imagine, just imagine!
how minuscule we are
soak that in until it fills
your bones—then
carry that enormity
back to bed
snuggle in the warmth
and drift to sleep
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
The pantoum is a poetic form originating in 15th century Malaysia that uses repetition. It’s a poem of any length composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The final stanza is often two lines from the first stanza.
to the bone
when life cuts you deep
serrated to the very bone
breathe in, breathe it in
and sit on that hot seat
serrated to the very bone
the cut pulls you deep inside
this hot seat burns and sears
an eruption of old impressions
the cut drags you into yourself
and compels a deeper holding
in this volcano of old emotion
you might slip off and fall
it demands a deeper immersion
into fear and misunderstanding
you might fall off the hot seat
rest awhile and crawl back on
parsing fear and misunderstanding
difficult and demanding work
rest awhile, but come back
this is yours alone to unwind
it’s difficult, demanding work
you wish it to be otherwise
but it’s yours alone to unwind
a puzzle of your own making
breathe in, breath it in
when life cuts you deep
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
cup of oneness
imbibing the cup
cast some friends out,
called new ones in—
this, a necessary
purge
it bulldozed
old beliefs,
flipped my view
upside down
and rearranged
my very core—
in the rubble
of myself,
I dusted
off remains
reclaimed a skeleton
of kindness, found
bones of gratitude—
now, drink
some more
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the waiting times
every day an illness
or a leaving, so unlike
five decades ago
celebrations, storks,
gifts and births
now death lingers,
leaning against
the street post outside
my friends’ homes,
not even in the shadows—
slouchy and bold
flicking an ash
waiting
no, not that—outdated!
with the snap of a finger
I send him away
it’s the Friend who waits
curious, playful
ready to ramble
happy to walk us home
no hat
certainly no smoke
trailing in the air
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
there to here
quiet dawn, few
tires on the road
sleepy people knuckle
eyes, stretch and stand—
here we are again,
always a surprise
perhaps we start with
gratefulness or prayer
perhaps the spice
of coffee or black tea
—some familiar rite
to shake us back to here
the shift
from there to here
unique for each of us,
but shift it is—
there, another universe
here, an unhinged world
yet full to brim with
small, good things
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
reminders
it used to be,
in corners of my home,
little altars everywhere—
Buddhas, polished
stones and crystals,
Ramana Maharishi’s
secret smile, a baby’s
lock of hair—
and on my arm,
olivewood beads
smoothed and oiled
with regular use
the names of God
a prayerful susurration
I recall the day
my mouth went still
crystals rehomed outside
one Buddha sits alone
serene in stone
inward altars now, no
outward signs desired
crystals no more revered
than this thumb drive
or pottery mug of pens
that live on my desk
each thing miraculously
given, each one sacred
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
Note: WordPress will no longer allow me to schedule posts. I’ve apparently
gone over their limit of 400. So instead of my poems being sent out automatically
at 12:15 a.m., I’m going to have to manually post them just before I go to bed,
between 9:30–10 p.m.
the price
are you willing
to pay the price?
the big field asks
it takes
the personal,
dark or private,
unwinds what is
crooked or mistaken—
your sorry thoughts
misplaced longings
and desires
the big field
is incandescent
it burns clean,
like cautery, all
that’s labeled
mine
and kindles wonder
in its place
do not be afraid
there is nothing
to lose—
the first narcissus
opens in the chill
tiny, bold and bright
a touch of sunshine
in the gulf of winter
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the dark
I know the dark—
the anaconda
coils my body
throttles my breath
drowning for air
I tear at the thing
bloody my hands
wear myself out
it could take me
I turn toward
the dark, drink it in
move through it
tune my ear
is that a note?
finally the faintest
gossamer of chant
the coils writhe
and fall away
I gulp air, flee
toward the song
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
precious cargo
our hearts—
not the complex
meaty thing
but capacity—
how the fox
forgoes food so
her kits are fed
even as skin
sculpts her ribs
how the youngster
slips piggy-bank
coins—
his whole savings—
in the blind man’s
mug or a worn-weary
woman pulls her
sister in close
we can shine
our heart light
and set
the world ablaze—
is this duty or gift?
either way,
meant to be
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 