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.
threshing floor
my beliefs fell
away in an instant
I watched them
flutter
to the floor
four decades
of practice—
wasted?
how would life
work without my
card house?
how to navigate
the unknown
and wide-open
now?
no more praying
to something
outside
or chanting
for peace of mind
even meditation
is not separate
from being, doing
or breath
first rage erupted,
months passing
before angst dissolved
so much wasted time!
then the idea of time
fell away
useful for living
but clearly not true—
a flood of joy
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
it sees through
what if?
something
is looking from
prior, before and
through your eyes
yet isn’t personal?
an unguarded moment
pure being surveys
no labels
no beliefs
or considerations
just
seeing
cells rearrange
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
geocaching for joy
her GPS is set for
unique coordinates
a homing device
that keeps her aligned
with stops on the way
she searches for
curiosity and wonder
and especially awe
these will clarify
her home ground
remember
the hide-and-seek
game from childhood?
you’re getting warmer
her brother would say
could he be trusted?
was he telling the truth?
her GPS offers
route choices—
shorter, more scenic
stop for snacks here
avoid traffic this way
take the country path
recalculate for joy
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the light of pure knowing
note from self
her heart is called
by the shoreless light
she can’t feel it
or touch it
or see it
but apprehends
it is prior to all she
can know—she
rests in aplomb
notices how light
underpins and supports—
solace in thick times and
her ground of being
she is made of this light
it pours through and
around her—
it does this for all
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
dripping in the night
after bedtime
water drips from the
cedar onto the roof
rolls into the gutter,
the plunks a consolation
to my desiccated heart.
blessed rain!
thirty-three years lived
off and on in California—
now, in one June downfall,
almost an inch?
I long to stay awake
soak in the rare and
fleeting melody, a denser
song on the shingles
hollow in the pipes
the rainfall, the cedar,
the shingled roof—
my very own self and
the friend in another guise
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.
collateral beauty
note to self
I look for it everywhere
only way to stay sane
today, it’s apricot aloe vera
the pompous blooms
dot our garden
my friend the squirrel
sleek and springtime fat
keeps me company
dances on the fence
while I write
jasmine! saturating the air
eager children on tiptoe
search books in the
little free library my
husband built
it matches our home
what a playful surprise
it takes daily tending
remove extra books
sometimes it’s stuffed to
overflow
fill empty slots
the neatening grounds me
in collateral beauty
delight erupts
take note
drink it in
let it nourish you
share
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.
broken and beautiful
note to self
oh my God, we are
broken and beautiful
every one of us
admit it or not
“we” includes
bright California poppies
filled with sunshine,
thief in broad daylight,
a knee-shaking kiss,
the rooster shagging
hens in the field,
incessant barking dog
how can it be like this?
how can it not?
our world is
kintsugi, broken—
an earthy bowl
lovingly repaired with
rivers of gold
again
again
and again
thank you Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer for the title.
What do we know of the objects of the world? This computer, the table where I sit, the chocolate covered espresso beans, the waving birch trees–look around your environment. What do we truly experience of what we see, touch, smell?
The knowing of it. That’s the whole shebang. When I touch this keyboard, I only have my perceptions of it–the apparent sight, touch, and sound. And what are sight, touch and sound?
The incomparable gift of knowing them. An immeasurable treasure.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2014
image credit
the heart of the matter 