their song

their song

five-thirty a.m. birds
chirping full-throated,
greeting first light
in amiable harmony
beyond them
town’s rumble
rubber on pavement
jetliners lumber
into flight

what was their tiny
songbird reaction
when their loud-mouthed
cousins lifted off ground
and first took to the air—
did they feel invaded?
for millions of years
it had been their space
now shared
with metal-slick bullies

they did what birds do—
against a background
of thundering diesel,
feed and mate
build their nests
care for young
and watch them fledge
greet every dawn
unperturbed

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

resistance

resistance

sometimes the mind
resists dropping
into the heart
defiance?
fear?
I push back my chair
step outside as dawn
brightens the sky
the morning chill
kisses my ears
sparrows chirp
squirrels stuff seeds
into their cheeks—
inexorable,
day has come again

this simple act
out of my chair
into fresh air
sniffing lemon flowers
pungent sweetness
fingering pea pods
my heart settles
and pluck returns
I can meet this day

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

stubborn praise

stubborn praise

it’s a wreck, this world
mishandled, misused—
human’s ugly touch
everywhere
plastic clogging the seas
trash pitched on roads,
minds that are broken
and vicious
and yet…
when sun dusts the trees
light plays the leaves
and breeze butterflies
my skin,
I breathe
grateful for dawn
grateful for love
grateful for you

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

dialect of silence

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.

my repertoire

my repertoire

the kitchen belonged
to Mom—she loved to cook
but not to teach
she wouldn’t share her space
so when I reached adulthood
I had a repertoire of one

fudge pie
it’s in the Joy of Cooking
inelegance its charm,
no prizes for its style
yet adopted by our tribe—
not vegan or gluten-free,
these days, it’s out-of-favor
just good old sugar
eggs, butter
and a smidge of flour
melted bitter chocolate
a spoonful of vanilla
oh my God! the flavor

you’ll have to whip
the egg whites
until they have stiff points
fold them in with care
and bake
the chocolaty bouquet!
accept its homely nature
then revel
a crustless cow-pie wonder

(if you want the actual recipe with quantities, post the request
with your email
in a response to this poem and I’ll be happy to send it to you.)

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

entanglement

entanglement

ablaze with gaudy
aloe vera, their
bright sherbet flowers
asking hummingbirds
to sip—over the decade
one plant became ten

behind, an outburst
of iris, delicate and fancy
stand in dawn’s light
begging for bees

we’re all entangled
needing each other
a delicate balance
that calls for repair
none stands alone
independent of others

plants and animals know
without knowing—
it’s coded within
bury an acorn here
another there
squirrels sow forests
without thinking

thinking’s the problem
root cause of the trouble
if I presume myself
separate
then I am—the cosmos
reflects comprehension

instead
let’s celebrate the tangle
that weaves us together
honor the kinship
that binds

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

toy squeaks

toy squeaks

to the left of my desk chair
a rhythmic squeaking
my un-housetrained pup
is gnawing her starman—
soft and five-pointed
the fourth dog to work it
she discovered the squeaker
last night in her crate
smart girl

no starman at bedtime

my rhythm’s been broken
and quiet is shattered
I’ll write with distraction
until she matures—
but here is the upside
she’s a sweet cuddlebug
I’ll trade some months
of disorder
for a decade of affection

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

daylight

daylight

I wake into day
instead of the India ink
that precedes first light
overslept
missed dark’s quiet
missed the first breath
of light dusting the sky
it’s not even seven
the day’s in full swing
where is my quiet?
that still point before
the world awakens
the dark well
waiting for me
to sink down
drench in
its luscious hush

the gift today
asks for welcome
doves cooing
texts dinging
flash of bird wing
and thieving squirrel
no dark well
instead sunshine
kisses the treetops
good morning!

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

the missionary and the dervish

the missionary and the dervish

she’s elderly
I’m only aged
seventeen years
between us
we knew upon
first meeting
we’d be fine friends
missionary emeritus,
retired dervish
antipodal beliefs?
not so—
on our separate paths,
broken, wounded
flayed open by our lives
both ran aground,
set up bivouac
and stayed—
love won

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

lemon bounty

lemon bounty

when I was growing up
in a state too cold for citrus
I didn’t grasp that winter
is when those trees
will share their bounty

in California’s chill,
our Meyer tree flares yellow
the satisfying season
of tart lemon bars
and the snappy tang of zest

now it’s almost May
our lemon is picked clean—
in a stroll around the neighborhood
a local tree hangs heavy
I take note with thieving interest

instead, I’ll do what’s right
knock on their door
introduce myself
beg bounty they’ve ignored—
will they share or cling?

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