light’s mystery
space is dark,
deep dark—yet light
is dancing through—
somehow concealed,
we cannot see its rays
our blazing sun,
but when it shines
through void, no sign—
then touches air
and blasts alive
like ice and steam
are states of water,
are these two
states of light—
unseen and seen?
perhaps an explanation,
but that not enough—
let me be struck still
by those depths
of mystery
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
what is this?
head thrown back
she stares at
the field of stars
billions
upon billions
where are we?
are we a lonely
planet at the edge
of an unknown galaxy?
or in communion?
a star falls,
or appears to—
its flash of light
in the still expanse
what happened,
really?
she cannot know—
hooting owls
in conversation
guide her home
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
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.
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.
contrapuntal
the threads of
earthly life—
rain of hot water
bite of her mocha
waft of jasmine
songbirds
at the sunflower
feeder
resting in the big
field of consciousness
knowing
the 10,000 things
are wholly one
miraculous
interplay—
melodies wrap
in and around
never touching
always one
and even that
says too much
of what cannot
be spoken
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
pain
note from self
pain—such a tiny
word for a complex
set of sensations
the body wants to
name as unpleasant
but is that true?
it is so at the most
obvious plane—
when she resists
but if she opens—
this takes quiet and
deeper attention
moving in, moving near
snuggling with the
flicking, enraged alligator
rather than running from it—
the pain dissolves into
tingle and birr and zing
she reminds herself—
the body tells the truth
the mind, a blatant liar
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
it simply is
note to self
this curious universe
seemingly boundless
birthing, erupting
decaying, rebirthing
or sucked into baffling
black holes
it all simply is—
time is meaningless
in this immensity
and we—
both a fleck
in this isness and
the isness itself—
not two
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
nowhere now here
note to self
your planet lives
at the edge of a
galaxy—some
say in the middle
of nowhere
nowhere now here
it’s all a matter of
space—
your friend says you
can’t put “love”
in a poem—
has love become
commonplace?
hackneyed? cliché?
it cannot be—
love flows out from
that placeless space
eternal, pellucid radiance
into now here
notice that
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
slant of mind
note to self
look carefully—
does that slant of
mind serve you?
it might be outdated
and need an upgrade
or maybe it can be
thanked, released, and
honorably interred
shame, self-doubt
regret—can you let
them go? notice their
presence and
set them down
slants of mind shade
the truth—
why would you want that?
thank you to Margaret Rooney for the title phrase
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
it matters
note to self
it matters how you
move in the world, if
you are impelled by
friendliness and
kinship with all things—
do you corral the spider
and carry it outside?
or are you closed up
defended, and afraid
you are not a lonely dot
threatened by the wider
ocean—more like pools
that lap each other’s
edges with gentleness
and care
you will be someone’s
ancestor—act accordingly
—Thank you to Amir Sulaiman for the last two lines of the poem.
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 