Poem a Day, Week 52, Dec 24 to 30, 2022
Welcome to Sifting the Rubble's weekly blog and podcast of my poem-a-day challenge for 2022. I am your host, and poet, Emily Gibson. The poems for the 52nd week of the year, Dec 24 to 30 came from a variety of eclectic sources.I want to explain, for those new to this podcast, that these are 1 or 2 day poems, which have not gone through the grist of revision. That comes later, something I truly look forward to, as I sift the collection for poems I want to finalize. For now, they are new, not quite steady on their feet, but each speaks of something, so I share them, uncensored. It is part of my healing challenge to write a poem every day this year.
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And now, for this week's poems!
Poem #358, Truth or Coincidences
by Emily Gibson, Dec 24, 2022
Happy happenstances of
just-in-time interventions:
we thought the same thing
at the same time, I called
right when you needed me,
if they hadn’t stopped for gas…
I don’t want to think about it!
Coincidences lull us to think
spiritual truth is bink
free will the rule
choices our fuel.
Consider an alternative…
coincidences as nudges
from ourselves
on a different plane
or a universal design
somewhere in time.
Anonymous actions
of a concerned spirit.
About "Truth or Coincidences": This poem started with a quote from an article I read, attributed to a nun in a Vietnamese war orphan charity: "Coincidence is God's way of staying anonymous." Though I don't believe in a single god or religion, I do believe there is something spiritual at work in the universe, and most of that something's work is anonymous.
Poem #359, All Worthy
by Emily Gibson, Dec 25, 2022
We are apples with surface blemishes,
Support beams with unobtrusive knotholes,
Undecided clouds between Cumulus and Cirrus.
We are mugs of tea that curdled their milk,
Combs, each with some teeth worn smooth,
Chairs with slight wobbles on tile floors.
We are bicycles with tires in need of tunes,
Wayward threads fallen from needles,
Light-strands that work despite absent bulbs.
We are keyboards with letters worn invisible,
Spider webs with broken cross strands,
Woven rugs with slight imperfections.
We are cabinet doors with sticky hinges,
Dog-eared books with tea-stained covers,
Cedar pencils, erasers worn dull with use.
We are all imperfect yet still useful
with repair or rest or restoration.
We are all worthy of care.
Poem #360, My Friend, Fear
by Emily Gibson, Dec 26, 2022
Fear is a metamorphic rock,
unable to choose a life
of sedimentary or igneous.
Fear leaves home with a compact
umbrella, a swimsuit, and a thermos
of warm cocoa no matter the weather report.
Fear can’t be in the present
as the vortex of future what-ifs
kicks too much dust up to breathe.
Fear has a filing cabinet filled
with every receipt from a lifetime
of purchases, organized alphabetically.
Fear carries a ziplock bag that contains
an extra shoelace, hair tie, three
safety pins, and adhesive velcro patches.
Fear can’t be in the present
for the hounds of the past
never stop slathering critique.
Fear is a child on a high dive’s edge,
ten toes curled over the board’s
sandpapery lip, unable to leap.
Fear lives in the same house
in the same town of their birth
so they can always get back home.
Poem #361, Jazz of a Morning
by Emily Gibson, Dec 27, 2022
A northern flicker drills
under the eaves outside
my bedroom, hard wood
siding with no insects
but still the bird dutifully
drums on the house
like hands that slap
a bongo drum into staccato
rhythm, almost a song.
A second bird brain joins
to peck percussion harmony
and influence my newly
drifted daydreams.
About "Jazz of a Morning": Inspired by a persistent sap sucker that insists there is something to be found in our rental house's eaves. Due to the very hard wood, it makes no progress, but comes back repeatedly to try again, typically in the early morning.
Poem #362, Oh to Be More Like an Oak Tree
by Emily Gibson, Dec 28, 2022
An oak gall swells throughout summer,
sheltered nursery for wasp infants
swaddled inside tree cellulose.
Unlike my mind where worry bloats,
festers with doubt, sends flurry thoughts,
halts my progress, trips attainment
of inner peace, an oak tree walls-
off intruders and carries on
unperturbed until each cocoon
lets life into the world to fly
free, no harm done. Our minds can learn
a lot about personal growth
from a grand old spacious oak tree.
Poem #363, For My Dad, Persistent and True
by Emily Gibson, Dec 29, 2022
In the dictionary’s definition
of reliable and consistent,
I see a photo of my dad.
Always showed up where he said he’d be
like a river makes it to the sea.
A force of nature, like a wind
that influenced contours of my life.
Faced with unexpected detours,
he snapped back like a tree from snow,
shook it off, made new roots grow.
There were so many obstacles
between our individual spheres
yet he showed up, and showed up
and showed up again,
to rise above the odds.
It wasn’t easy.
He kept on, straight and level.
In my ignorance I made assumptions
like a rock predicts a wave’s intentions.
In my assumptions I made decisions
that sadly suffer inability of revisions.
The best I can do
is to say I see you persistent, true
every step of the way.
I know this.
Thank you.
Poem #364, The Stories Our Minds Tell
by Emily Gibson, Dec 30, 2022
Between an action
and how we feel
lies what-it-means,
stories our minds tell.
Internal words used
to describe our selves
to ourselves
could be thought trash
shaped by experiences
and previous “what-it-means,”
inaccurate illusions
and delusions born of survival.
This thought life,
it’s weighty like mercury
and just as poisonous
when left to run unchecked.
That friend you think ignored your call
is in their own world, it’s not you at all
so don’t stall when your mind’s
what-it-means tells you it is.
Time to take out the trash!
That garbage fouls
for days if we let it.
Instead, notice the whys
we attribute to others
pick up a different thought
trust until you can verify.
