the singing bridge

the singing bridge

as tires sped over
the roadway grate
the bridge opened
into song
my span home
cherished canticle
a psalm
soothing my way

on quiet days
I could hear it
from our house
the rhythmic chant
lub dub
at the start
a singing verse
dub lub
at the end

the city tore it down
progress, they said
the bridge
forever stilled
yet
seventy years on
my heart still rings
with its song

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

bones know

bones know

bones sense
where home is
when a part
breaks away
a fall
or worse
it seeks
its way back

so it is with “I”
this I knows home
feels the pull
toward the root
of the root
will ceaselessly
search until
searching is done

tries psychedelics
plays extreme sports
sits in prayer
or meditation
no difference
except nuance
but still believes
tools might help

maybe they do
trust your bones

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

attention

attention

attention is the beginning of devotion—Mary Oliver

not furrowed
concentration,
rather wide-open
attending invites
astonishment

the big field exposes
the unexpected—
startled
by the slantwise,
surprised by the clue

it came through me
was unknown to me—
now stripped away
what was in the way
and revealed
devotion’s spore

claim no ownership
plant the spore deep
it is not mine, yet
it’s mine to tend,
nurture and unfold
my task alone

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

altar of undoing

altar of undoing

brought or dragged
to my altar of undoing
the labor began

sacred endeavor

discern what’s true
and not personal

the rend of confusion
truth frightened me

unwind beliefs
and the stories
that sustained them
pools of misery
tears upon tears

finally! the light
of understanding

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

fitted in

fitted in

boundless heart
vast mosaic
each of us a tiny tile,
our place revealed—
feel it with your
fingertips—does it
require rasp or saw
to snug a spot,
or does it slip
right in?
be tender here—
this life,
sharp edges,
wants no less

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

how do I live?

how do I live?

Live with skillful nonchalance and ceaseless concern.
— Prajnaparamita Sutra

I awaken each morning
avoid the news
it ignites incessant concern
I’ll bear it later in the day

quiet, I sit with my latte
breathe
remind myself of the truth
we are one body perceived
as eight trillion things

the I that I am holds it all
and is also a mere pinprick
of light—oh, the mystery!

my assignment—
live with skillful nonchalance
to balance ceaseless concern
both are needed
both required

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

if

if

if I accept
that the delicate
flutter of a butterfly’s
wings can alter
the manifest world

if I know this
in the deepest
heart of myself,
then it’s plain
we’re one vast body

if a tiny tremble
a mere shiver
powerful
as man’s war
ignites a shift

then the movement
of love in my
small realm
matters

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

drink from the river

drink from the river

this river of light
pours
river of knowing
it pours in us
of
through
and around us

we’re made of this
that isn’t an it
prior to mind
outside
and inside space
outside
and inside time
this holds both

clear light
love
washes us clean
evermore
fresh as
now

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

the warehouse

the warehouse

like boxes of faded
photos or piles
of old newspapers
our bodies
are storehouses—
they hold on to fears
hurts and rejections
layer upon layer
and hide them
in recesses

residues separate
we’ve lost the links
and can no longer
parse them
but the slumbering
mass snares us
the stories have fled
but they still grip hard
a saw-toothed trap

until we invite them
are willing to greet
these old hurts
feel them down
to the bone—then
watch them dissolve
into simple sensation
and they’re gone

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

snag

snag

the lightning-struck oak
stood broken and brown
yet new sprouts grew
from the snag—
woodpeckers
squirrels, a raccoon
all found nests inside—
mushrooms and fungus
grew—zillions of bugs
burrowed and fed
this lively home

when life squeezes you
into a pinched path
or misshapen form
when ideas are blocked
or heart-dreams broken

walk out into the dawn
let the snarl of your mind
breathe moist air
go to the root of yourself—
the oak
brought down and reborn

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