remembering to bow

remembering to bow

I’ve learned to bow
to interrupted days—
some mornings
I pray for simple
forbearance
and the courage
to face what is,
write when I can
find patience when I can’t
nurture when needed

I bow in thankfulness
remembering my teachers
I bow, enriched by love
forehead pressed to the floor
grateful for the ground

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

small stones

small stones

when my spirit flags
and hope has fled
in the face of
malice gone wild
I’m reminded—
the smallest pebble
can start a landslide
they roll and gather
until, with a whoosh!
and roar, that land
is changed forever

allow me to kindle a
sweep of good will
I ask to be that stone

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

ode to everyday things

ode to everyday things

one dawn
I spilt my mug
mocha sloshed
onto my special
ergonomic keyboard—
coffee, milk, chocolate
all leaking in

the dash to save it
mopping fast
stubbed cotton
swabs into corners
relief when
fingers typed
and letters appeared

I smooth my hands
over those keys
stroke my travel mug
—lid now screwed on

oh! the utility of
everyday things—
each object
praiseworthy
a miracle of
functional beauty

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

sheltering

sheltering

my husband invited
1,000 house guests
to live with us
—indefinitely—
milling, burrowing,
their home is
in the bathroom,
a tub within a tub—
they have eclectic
preferences
vegetable ends
fruit leavings
even coffee grounds—

hidden away in
a dark, moist world
their hum of
endless chewing,
little rototillers
transforming
dirt into soil
a very precious gift—
eisenia fetida
red wigglers
why is it that
I squirm myself?

broken open again

broken open again

it doesn’t take much
to bring me here
overcast sky
steady, hard rain
sweet moist earth
the stream of ants
inside, again
small details
the familiar ones
crack me open
to this very life
and bear me home

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

the singing bridge

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.

bones know

bones know

bones sense
where home is
when a part
breaks away
a fall
or worse
it seeks
its way back

so it is with “I”
this I knows home
feels the pull
toward the root
of the root
will ceaselessly
search until
searching is done

tries psychedelics
plays extreme sports
sits in prayer
or meditation
no difference
except nuance
but still believes
tools might help

maybe they do
trust your bones

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

attention

attention

attention is the beginning of devotion—Mary Oliver

not furrowed
concentration,
rather wide-open
attending invites
astonishment

the big field exposes
the unexpected—
startled
by the slantwise,
surprised by the clue

it came through me
was unknown to me—
now stripped away
what was in the way
and revealed
devotion’s spore

claim no ownership
plant the spore deep
it is not mine, yet
it’s mine to tend,
nurture and unfold
my task alone

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

altar of undoing

altar of undoing

brought or dragged
to my altar of undoing
the labor began

sacred endeavor

discern what’s true
and not personal

the rend of confusion
truth frightened me

unwind beliefs
and the stories
that sustained them
pools of misery
tears upon tears

finally! the light
of understanding

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

fitted in

fitted in

boundless heart
vast mosaic
each of us a tiny tile,
our place revealed—
feel it with your
fingertips—does it
require rasp or saw
to snug a spot,
or does it slip
right in?
be tender here—
this life,
sharp edges,
wants no less

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