the call
I yield myself and am borrowed —D. H. Lawrence
this, the gift
to give over until
willingly taken
I wait
stars winking
plenitude inside
creation, a joining
thee and me
source and means
a seeming two yet
one in play
a labyrinth
this web of words
shivers rush
my back
the unknown calls
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
mud puddles and twig
blank mind dread
still dark
never sure
if words will come
then I remember
what my poet friend says
it doesn’t have to be good
but it has to be true
I trust true
will come when I wait
in the discomfort
of not knowing
the beat of my heart
drops me
back into my body
where words collide
once there’s a slurry
I trust play
will find shape
and take form
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
readiness
I wander the chasm
of not-knowing
waiting
like testing mango
a slight give
implies ripeness
if not
no letdown or regret
just not ready
a gate’s like that
when it clicks
the way opens
no idea where it goes
I follow
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
he said…
over fifty years ago
awful writing
outed me by name
not worth comments
ripped it in half
in front of the class
chucked it in the trash
my cheeks burned
shame carved a pit
I tumbled in
made my home
for three decades
after I survived
being crushed by a tree
thought, now or never
clawed out of the pit
braved another class
months of hard work
this professor called me in
I huddled in the chair
waiting
consider this—handed me
a spiral-bound book
I hefted the weight
before peering at the title
Graduate Writing Programs
two thoughts
I need this much help?
he must see potential
twenty-five years later
1 memoir
3 novels
715 poems
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
barren butte
my inner landscape
gone dry
time to step outdoors
kneel down mark off
a modest patch
at first look it seems
bare like my inscape
but if I take the time
right there
a tiny seed has waited
for the right support
sunlight soil eased
by evening rain
the temperature just so—
outer coating softened
by the damp,
changes I can’t see
but feel,
its readiness to root
the urge to sprout
ants emerge from nests
they feel the sun
have chores to do
I take in more
stretch
my stiffening knees
I must, too
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
morning insistence
ikigai: Japanese—one’s reason for getting out of bed every day
words
pull me from bed
nudging, insistent
even demanding
time to get up
there’s work to be done
they are not mine
I cannot claim them
urging from the word bank
this is your task to do
so I rise in the dark
and toddle to my desk
after firing up my computer
I sit waiting
trust is required
words may not flow
sometimes they’re thin
with no substance
other times florid
and overwritten
my job not judging
but most rare
they spill out shapely
the little voice
says don’t touch them
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
growing need
more time to rest
more time to write
more time to simply be
bustle draws me
less and less
I’m swamped with activity
adventure doesn’t tug
home life soothes
the simple day-to-day
walking with my sweetheart
feeding the birds
sniff what’s blooming
watch the squirrels play
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
and there I rest
in my days
I need a breath
a pause
and in that place
that can’t be touched,
find my wandering way
in the depths
the soul of heart
that keeps me true
I meet myself
both common
and unique
and there I rest
or swim or soak
until something floats
into sight, I examine it,
consider—
worthy of words?
if not, I let it loose
with kindness
and a blessing
watch it coast away
and tend with love
the opening it leaves
this space, this place
that can’t be touched
that nurtures all I am
caesura
a breath, a pause
a grace
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
daily practice
most poems limp in lumpy—
there may be a line
with a trace of truth
I pare dead words away—
the verse has a life
independent of mine
does it voice its own truth?
what does it want to say?
I repeatedly speak it,
ear for its musical echo
rephrasing a line
prune this and cut that
until it feels pleasing
once in a while
it’s too disheveled
for shaping—I’ll snag
one single phrase
let go of the rest
and start fresh again
the rarest of poems
pours in clear—
I lift my hands
from the keys
no fussing with this one
let it shine its own song
about time
as a child, it crawled—
the long spread of summer
hot, humid days
the stream in the woods
where I plunged
hands into chill water
wrestled a stone
from the bottom
stared wide-eyed
at fossils, I ran
fingers over a body
millions of years old—
for the first time
I felt awestruck and small
now the days rumble by
like bumps on the road
first light, last light
first light again
urgency presses
there’s work to be done
I don’t hunt for fossils
or watch seedlings grow
but that awe took root—
breath in and out
words filling a page
these mark my days
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 