tincture
Let me bathe my soul in colors; let me swallow the sunset
and drink the rainbow. —Khalil Gibran
when I can’t find
my footing
and my spirits are low
sunrise’s bloom
or sunset’s blaze
slides down my throat
the tincture of grandeur
buoying
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
misunderstanding
I don’t think the common thread that runs through humanity is greed or power….
It is this binding agent of loss. —Nick Cave
when one country
swallows another
fracturing families
crushing spirits—
I assume our nature
is greed
disgusted, think only,
failed species
but what if I’m wrong
maybe this lust
is grounded in fear—
we know we lose all
so lash out
outcome, unchanged
but I soften
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
every one of us
In my old age, I have come to realize that everybody
on the planet is recovering from something. —Jerry Stahl
the nature of living
for humans, at least
lessons and learning
to navigate
over the decades
gathered my tools
as I trekked
compass, sextant,
binoculars—
most crucial,
my heart’s barometer
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
surprise
at the beginning
of the dry season
I wake to steady
rumbling on the roof
lulled, body softens
wants to sink back
into sleep
but Jazz is up
on her feet
cold nose nudging
before rising
I send prayers
for the war torn
and unhoused
how is it my sisters
my brothers
bed down in cold rain
and I have the gift
of husband, warm dog
and snug dwelling?
I am not better
not special
and so grateful
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
soak in spring
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine. —Rainer Maria Rilke
some days, when the world
insists on otherwise,
I insist on seeing miracles
peer through day’s haze
note how dust motes
float in light,
our daytime stars
doves gather
ten, now twelve
feast on seed
below the feeder
while the bride of spring
jasmine’s spill,
spreads heady scent
short-sleeved,
sitting in sunshine
warm on winter skin
worry turns to wonder
I drink it in
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the call
I yield myself and am borrowed —D. H. Lawrence
this, the gift
to give over until
willingly taken
I wait
stars winking
plenitude inside
creation, a joining
thee and me
source and means
a seeming two yet
one in play
a labyrinth
this web of words
shivers rush
my back
the unknown calls
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
perplexed
this worldly life
abuzz and busy
so puzzling
where’s the quiet?
instead of dominion
I need
listening, watching
for how we fit
the worm does its part
aerates soil
birds and squirrels
spread seeds—
greens feed animals
then their bodies
nourish ground
mutuality in cycle
dear me,
look around
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
when all is cold,
I’m cuddled up in furry
orchid fleece
dog warming my feet
her recognition
of my need
and wet, chilly toes
that closeness
when loss hovers
invites willingness
I raise my gaze
the sparrow singing
chest puffed out,
impervious to cold—
I am not
but I am warmed
by our home
and the love
that supports me
I think of many
in bedraggled tents
on the streets
in earthquake-
crushed buildings,
or washed out by flood
could I be courageous,
share
my fleece or dog?
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the age of loss
every day a new reminder
an ache a twinge
minuscule shift,
but there—
harbinger
marking a different time
new signposts
come grow go
a friend reported
my brother died
I’m the last one standing
her gaze hummed grief
and comprehension
before, a distant veil
floating our way
now here
raw
obdurate
inevitable
the clouds pile
look—
how majestic they are
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
lightkeeper
to tend the flame
feed it twigs
then forage boughs,
my homage—
to kindle warmth
in my small sphere
sometimes it sputters
amidst hard rain
I shield it
with my hands
my heart breathe
embers awake again
this, the work
it calls my name
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 