dialect of silence
this field of quiet,
the ground beneath
the language of stillness
few understand
and some even dread—
why fear what holds us?
available to all
this gift, this gold
the standing nation
knows it best
giants stood
for two-thousand years
I believe they listen
which is why
the forest is sanctuary—
as I stand among them
I feel their attending
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
compass
it takes a deeper quiet
essential for my life
to find my inner compass
the one that won’t delude
but it’s not enough to spot it
I must decode its guidance
listen to its wisdom
then respond
there’s the rub
it’s ruthless in its pointing
I was not misled
to think it would be easy
that pledge was never made—
it stripped away defenses
allowed me my mistakes
but there’s a grace
I must concede—
like a border collie
nipping at my heels
it drove me always
toward what’s true
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
stop thinking
I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence,
and the truth comes to me. —Albert Einstein
I can’t “stop” thinking
the mind just runs
a banal and ceaseless train
yet I can slip beneath,
dive into bracing light
thoughts will play up top
I let them romp
once beneath
viewpoint fades—
such reprieve!
I rest in that light’s sling
sway in solitude and be,
just be
restored, refilled
with streaks of inspiration
I drift back up
accede to thought again
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
huge silence
There is a huge silence within each of us, beckoning
us back into itself. —attributed to Meister Eckhart
it’s always there
waiting to be noticed
the fathomless well
calling me inward
into the heart
of the heart
I swim down
deeper
find silence’s support
how it buoys
how it thirsts,
welcoming
those who remember—
held by the depth
thankful, I bow
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
dissolve the shackle
Lay a little heat on your spiritual life
—Father Ron Rolheister
you aware when
when you see through
through this earthly life
to something deeper—
it’s on you
to make the turn
beyond the bustle
and the rumpus
to where it’s still
—rest there
explore the land
not with your feet
probe knowing instead
be thorough
lay a little heat
use intention
open your eyes
to the quarter-inch hail
pelting outside—
that, too
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
retaining wall considerations
in appreciation of my husband’s skill
with your engineer’s eye
stand back
take in the slope
and the fence behind
consider your approach
in silence, walk away
it’s time to stew
repeat three or four times
eventually, you form a plan
the build begins
you shape the land
smooth the ground
lay base for
your first stone
over the days
the wall displays its shape
you stand back
considering again
where you’ve been
and what you’ve done that
shapes what’s next to come
there are surprises
when excavating for a wall
your trowel hits
concrete buried deep
it sets you back
but not for long
soon concrete’s gone
when your work’s
complete, stones fit
the land so well
they frame the hill
it’s confounding
to imagine what
the land looked like before
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
need
what I need to write a poem:
first light brightening the east
before dawn lazes
over the field
a door to close
my mocha within reach
wide expanse
of computer monitor
the alluring white page
calling, calling
begging for words
no journal and pen for me,
the endless cross-outs
that force rewriting
just to make it legible—
I choose cursor and backspace
cut, copy, or paste
swipe and delete
and ergonomic keyboard,
so my arms don’t ache
and the light, the lovely light
birthing a fresh day
opening the way for words
still, deep quiet settling
around me
an empty calendar helps—
too much pressure
and words flee to find
you, lucky you,
happy with paper and pen
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
monastery
1986
olivewood beads
handwoven shawl
reflection journal
unpacked with care
ten silent days
ten days alone
the hours loom
every day
old graveyard walk
I trace the dates
on worn-down stones
died at eighteen
twenty-two, our angel
taken at birth
I dodge rushing cars,
horns, anxious
people with no notion
the breadth of a day
spent slowly
minute by minute
in silence
how still the chapel,
sacred names
on the breath
fingering the beads
1001 times
again
and again
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
presence
it is most native
most basic
and yet elusive
right here
but goes unnoticed
the treasure
the pearl
right here
what watches?
what’s aware?
not a mystery
right here
try this:
walk
into the woods
sit
sit for a long time
until the woods,
stilled
on your entrance,
relaxes
the first bird darts
and calls
squirrels bicker
and in the understory
the fox slips by—
this, right here
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
I went out to hear
the lull at dawn
a moment of pause,
earth waiting to exhale
the affairs of day
then hummers whir
poke at the feeder
they chitter and bicker
pushing for domain
daffodils unfold
yesterday a few, now
over sixty, proclaiming
winter’s thin warmth
might become spring
the rumble of tires
on pavement, strident
humans headed to work
the exhalation has begun
all of it,
held in primal silence
all of it,
sacred ground
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 