thread of all sorrows
feeling separate
that thread pulls us down
first wound
prime loss that plaits
our hearts to suffering
we perform our part
abandoned, betrayed
cut off from source
the cause of war
harm of all kinds
the call—
a voice so soft
come
at first, can’t
parse the words
but feel the pull
like gravity like song
after years or eons
we make the turn
for home
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
contemplatio
contemplation is derived from the Latin word contemplatio, ultimately from the Latin word templum, a piece of consecrated ground or a building for worship.
such gall
believing ground
needs sanctifying
sacred
from the onset
this birthed out of void
a temple of stardust
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
terminal
Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience
consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. —Annie Dillard
I’m leaving—
leaving from
the instant I arrived
you are, too
that’s the deal
we get magnolias
in flamboyant bloom
love so strong
it flays us wide
we get trouble
and headache
puzzles to solve
conflict and famine
the breadth of it all
yet also light
luminous ground
radiating ineffable
pulsing from the core
grab my hand
let’s stay on for the ride
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the brink
breath feels bright
and carries light
torso tingling
calm core within
relaxed anticipation
I’m on the brink
of the not-yet-known
clearer still
the not-yet-remembered
beyond threshold
the mossy rim
a never-before-noticed
caldera
both in and out of time
a touchstone
let go my hand
I’ll leap
bone knowing
unshakable
strong
and insistent
when I know
I know
without thinking
prior to faith with
no markers nor claim
a stalwart oak
taproot in eternity
and reliable strength
in a gale
bone knowing
I call it forth now
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
passing away
my life, partner, pup
and my son will all
pass away—
we are passing away
each moment
lost to the next
never to return
but through memory
where kindness
and sorrow reside
we draw close
to what’s lost
yet can’t touch it
even that recall
changes and fades—
everything
going, going, gone
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
fear
Fear is the cheapest room in the house.
I would like to see you living in better conditions. —Hafiz
I rented the room
not for the view
nor the low rate
but because it’s familiar
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
failed?
pitching the newspaper
onto the floor
I stare out the window
thinking,
we’re a failed species
then, the postwoman
brings mail to my door
and with a kind smile,
hands me an letter
with hand-drawn flowers
addressed in familiar
cursive—fifty-year friend
pressing it to my heart
I thank our mail person
wish her a fine day
sit on the stoop
in the kiss of a sun ray
and read my friend’s
steadying words
I feel you in my heart,
avoid the news,
notice small joys instead
how the Daphne’s
ready to bloom,
and remember to watch
for billowing clouds
with a child’s eye
she knows me,
my friend
but, is it enough
to keep me
out of the trough
today?
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
it’s real
The illusion doesn’t go away; the ignorance does.
—Rupert Spira
a hand on my arm
I’m here, all right
no denying—
this world is,
I feel it
yet
not what we’re taught
not made of matter
as we think of it
instead, brimming
with the bright flame
of knowing
I see, hear
smell, taste, touch
actual experience—
for me,
irrefutable evidence
my dog’s fur
rough wheaten coat
inquiring eyes
her delight
threading through
we step outside
nippy, this cold
I taste the chill
imbibe moist air
oh yes, it’s real
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.
pirouette—a pantoum
emptiness is not the goal
although it is a pirouette
along the wayward way
know this—there is no goal
watch that pirouette
can you lose your path?
know this—there is no goal
look for hidden doorways
you can lose your path
and get tangled in samsara
look for hidden archways
that lead you through the void
search crannies of samsara
until they bore you stiff
move on through that emptiness
don’t think that it’s a goal
samsara will bore you stiff
if you taste until you’re done
the void is not a stopping place
cherish enigma—it’s the gold
sample until you’re done
and you’re bored with every thing
paradox can be the gold
discover your love of the world
along the wayward way
emptiness is not the goal
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 