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
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.
come home
as I elder into old,
noticing is called back home—
be gentle here, it says
rest in slanted sunshine
close your eyes, eavesdrop
as birds tuck in for night
reflect on what’s involved
in autumn’s harvest
how to put it all to bed
I ask for yields of kindness
and gleans of gratitude
to fruit my shortening days
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
cup of oneness
imbibing the cup
cast some friends out,
called new ones in—
this, a necessary
purge
it bulldozed
old beliefs,
flipped my view
upside down
and rearranged
my very core—
in the rubble
of myself,
I dusted
off remains
reclaimed a skeleton
of kindness, found
bones of gratitude—
now, drink
some more
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
petrichor
as drops find
parched ground,
fragrance lifts—
first downpour
hint of beginnings
and mystery
camels know this
with flaring nostrils
over miles of sand
they scent moisture
move toward it
desert’s lifeblood
my petrichor is love
I catch a whiff—
my heart, dazed
by life’s ferocity,
opens
softened
once more
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
first light
walk into dawn
allow soft pinks
to wrap your heart
stand by the rhubarb
that just broke ground
hear songbirds
welcome light—
while you await
first crowning rays
the chill air bites
headache washes clean
Daphne wakes your
nose—winter’s gift
the world may be
in chaos, but here,
for now,
peace reigns
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the test
1974
infant son
malformed heart
callous docs
severe surgeries
wailing baby
life, a hard cushion
she was pushed
to notice the good—
so many gratitudes!
hot tub’s warm embrace
hound’s comforting nudge
her little boy’s hug
noting grace became
her way—she learned to
heed life’s finespun
palette—delicate
melding from one
soft hue to another
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the bud
before she could talk
her heart a tight bud
not like a rose bullet
refusing to bloom
this needed touch
refuge required
to begin to unfurl
two decades went by
until she left home
found a heart tribe
where she could fit in
under kind care
the heartwork began
fifty years later
her heart’s open flower
she shares her abundance
with those nearby
they all grow a garden
awash in warm blossom
and have made a
brilliant bouquet
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.
at age thirteen
wail into the abyss
deep in the Colorado
canyon, I let loose a howl
it ricocheted from
wall to wall
kin answered—
six legs between us
coyote sister, reedy
yips declare interest
back and forth
loneliness in
conversation
testing the air
friend? rival?
adversary?
fraud, exposed?
unsure, we took
our solitary paths
but a fragrance
remained between us—
I was outlander, not foe
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.
the heart of the matter 