as forever
life is spacious
when young—
once sixty,
years become
months, then
rush into pure,
lively moments
each day, I think
about death,
mostly the how
and the when—
will there be pain?
can I sip the awe
of not knowing?
dawn lightens,
for a breath,
all is hushed—
then the squirrel
flicks his tail
as forever
moves closer
than ever
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
light’s mystery
space is dark,
deep dark—yet light
is dancing through—
somehow concealed,
we cannot see its rays
our blazing sun,
but when it shines
through void, no sign—
then touches air
and blasts alive
like ice and steam
are states of water,
are these two
states of light—
unseen and seen?
perhaps an explanation,
but that not enough—
let me be struck still
by those depths
of mystery
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
that kind
I don’t want to be
that kind of old—
querulous, afraid,
and downed by loss
instead, I want to try
new ways,
be curious
with a rich heart
and ready smile
that’s another way
to imbibe this life,
all of it, full tilt—
make peace with pain
its knife bite,
advancing aches,
and griefs that rend
two role models,
both mid-nineties
teach me how to be—
their lifelong friends
are gone, and yet
they greet each day
with interest and relief
to find themselves alive—
I’d like to add in joy
I pray to be that way
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
slipstream
dogged and resolute
she was on the hunt—
not sure for what
but insistent in the search
she sought for spirit’s slipstream
like a cyclist seeks the wake
peddling behind a rider
to propel herself along
relieved to find her rhythm
with companions by her side
she rode into that vacuum
for something she called home
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
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.
the heart of the matter 