abidance 2

abidance 2
note to self

when you recognize
you’re caught in a
frenzied parade of
rampant thoughts
stop
breathe
abide

notice how sunlight
plays on wavering leaves
a squirrel dances the fence
the red-tailed hawk
nabs a goldfinch midair
and silence underpins it all
investigate that

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the bell

the bell
note to self

first it tolled my heart
thrummed my frame
called me to quiet—

shuffling sandals and
rustle of robes as monks
settle on seiza benches

facing the wall
a sustained silent sit
sound vibrates inside

my sense of me
meddlesome mind
gonging monastery bell

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

the Dervish turn

the Dervish turn
1999
note to self

I settle my sikke
firmly on my head
pray it will not fall off

bow to the Sheikh
raise my wings
one palm skyward
receives grace
one palm earthward
offers mercy to
our mangled world
turn, turn, and turn
until everything vanishes

there is music
I do not hear it
silence settles inside

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

belonging

belonging
note to self

you do not recognize
how you belong—
you feel inelegant
awkward and other

until one day
it becomes clear
your belonging
lives in kinship
with what is—

each time you
remember this
the mind, for
an enticing flash
goes still

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

silence blessing us

silence blessing us
note to self

it’s always here—
in the midst of
raucous music
or rumination
skeet range or
forest grove—
silence blessing us

it’s underneath
behind, or prior—
no word points in
the right direction
it’s unfindable
and ever-present

thank you to Rebecca Evert for the title phrase

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

slant of light

slant of light

late in the afternoon
my favorite slant of light
it tickles the firethorn
invites sunflowers to turn
shifts jasmine’s white to cream
dusts everything with gold—
so why do poems demand the night?

my earth suit wants to sleep
yet fingers claim the keys
silence awakens my genie
she swigged that slant of light—
her drink of choice—it kindled
inner fire and pleads for air
write it write it write it now

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.

retreat hut

retreat hut

note to self

you don’t attend church
that stone-steepled place
your sanctuary is inside
an internal retreat hut
you do attend there
on a regular basis—
not only on Sundays
every single day
many times a day
in fact, you live there
rest in the big field
luminous realm
offer gratitude
remember
breathe
listen
pray
be

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.

this, too

this, too

note to self

so tired.
tired of infighting and
hatred. tired of lies.
what is this human
aversion to truth?
we’ve slipped
off the diving board.
let’s cherish the bowl
of our fragile home.
wholeness is no longer
possible in the manifested
world. Kintsugi calls.
we can mend ourselves
with rivulets of goodness.
it takes more juice
to frown than smile.
choose gold.
gold lacquer and rice flour,
a delicate harmony.

start.
sit in silence.
parse what is.
right now. all of it. the lush
air at sunup’s first blush.
hawk nabs gopher.
gunfire.
parents beg.
even DNA required.
weeping, they
comfort each other.
this, too.
with a slender brush,
smooth liquid gold
into the seams.
kindness.
peace.
care.
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.

the grace path

the grace path*

he suffers
I cannot turn away
but truly see him
just as he is
lying on the carpet
always aching
self-medicating
fragrance
tinging the air

he does not complain
tends to his pain
as best he can
smiles, shows me
puppy livecams
my heart yearns to
enfold him in
mother love
he’s almost forty-eight
it’s not my place anymore

instead
he offers me a toke
maybe I accept
soft music and waterfalls
play on YouTube
we talk quietly of the big field
and the atmosphere
of that conversation
soaks the room in, yes, love
it’s taken care of
we lean into the grace path

*thank you Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer for the title.

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.