A Poem a Day, Week 13, March 26 to April 1, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 13, March 26 to April 1, 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 13th week, Mar 26 to April 1, were heavily influenced by nature, cycling, and air travel.   I especially appreciated finally getting down on paper some thoughts about my grandparents and the house I grew up in on Quarry Rd.  

Sifting the Rubble will be taking a hiatus from weekly podcasts and blogs over the next 7 weeks.  While I will still be writing a poem a day, they will be published in my bicycle tour journal.   Recording podcasts while on the road will be difficult if not impossible, but I will catch up when I return!   If you would like to follow our bicycle trip on the Pacific Coast, and read the daily poems, here is the link.  

My intention is to post links to the daily tour journal entries on Sifting the Rubble's digital platforms:

Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/BlueheronELG 

Twitter  https://twitter.com/SiftingThe

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/sifting_the_rubble/

Please like and follow and share in whichever ways suit you.  Thank you! :)

And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 13 Poetry Podcast

Poem #85, Side-Blotched Lizard

by Emily Gibson, Mar 26, 202

Do animals have personal theme songs

that play in the background when they move?

If so, I vote for "Mission Impossible"

to be the Side-blotched lizard’s song. 

It darts and hesitates,

eluding,

a master criminal

in disguise,

with gray camo 

that disappears

into lava rock

or sage.

About "Side-Blotched Lizard":  I studied one of these lizards while it darted around during my lunch, eating near a pile of rocks.  I could hear its theme song playing in my head, so the poem was born.

Poem #86, Decisions, Decisions

by Emily Gibson, Mar 27, 2022

I am a baby cow

A calf if you will.

Dropped to the ground

Seven days ago.

Which to me,

Is forever.

I can’t eat hay 

But I belly 

Up to the bar

Anyway,

To be part

Of the herd.

My aunts cover 

Me in chaff.

Bits of straw snow

Fluttering down.

Someday I’ll be like them

With my own calf.

If I’m lucky, I’ll have twins.

Or maybe I’ll be 

An engineer,

A graphic designer,

Or a moovie star.

At this moment,

I need some milk.

About "Decisions, Decisions":  On a bicycle ride in the late afternoon, past the pasture where I witnessed a calf enter the world last week, I searched for the same calf.  There were three of about the same age, two cavorting about, and this one, hanging out at the feeder pretending to be a big cow.   The older cows covered it in bits of hay falling from their mouths.   When it turned around to look at me, I heard this poem, hinting at humor.  

Poem #87, Scattering of White

by Emily Gibson, Mar 28, 2022

Between the junipers 

and rusty barbed wire

lay hidden a scattering of white.

At first, “Who left all this trash

of toilet paper and rags?”

At second, “No, those are ribs,

and femurs and hips.”

Bones from last year, hidden from sight,

size of vertebrae hint at hefty might,

and a massive rack kept upright. 

A herd of relatives at a distance:

white tails flicker, bodies bob.

As a unit they bound away 

from a bicycle leaned on a post,

illusion of a bear,

with my 80 pounds of gear.

Did it hide here to die?

Or what drug it here to deteriorate? 

The absence of skull is no clue.

Scavengers of a particular type

would take it as trophy,

others for nutrients inside. 

Hidden skeleton 

just off the road,

now seen

you have been.

About "Scattering of White":  On another training ride for our bicycle tour, I pulled off a busy road for a bite of food and hydration.  Whenever I see dead animals on the road, I say a quick apology for their fate, since it is usually due to a vehicle.  This skeleton startled me. Without the skull, hard to know what it was or how it died, as I mused in this poem. There was a moment of solemnity to it, with the herd of deer in the distance causing me to pay respects and truly see this being, regardless of how it died.

Poem #88, Trinidad House, 1969

by Emily Gibson, Mar 29, 2022

A child of a child has perspectives

On a parent and that parent’s parents.

Grandchild’s knowing of grandma, grandpa.

Child’s understanding of mom.

Different, not better or worse, 

Then that which each has of the other,

Colored by their time

As family, together.

The tiny brown house they bought

Kept their grandchildren off the street.

A treasure that grounded us

In one place.

Surrounded by redwoods,

Next door to the rock quarry,

Up the hill from the ocean, 

Nestled in nature.

What a haven.

The grandparents descended every summer,

Spanning the distance from Corona Del Mar

In a green Ford truck hauling

Every tool needed in its utility bed,

Metal cupboards and drawers

Prepared for the season’s 

Repairs, remodels, extensions

To turn a tiny house into our home,

Led by grandpa’s craftsman hands.

Hands that spoke love louder than words, 

Even words so buried in hurt

They screamed and clawed.

Their stays at Bishop Pine Lodge

Seemed exotic and decadent to us.

Us, who never went anywhere. 

Pea gravel road wrapped 

Around curved lots with wooded cottages 

That peeked out from thickets

Of rhododendrons and pines.

We raced around for games

Of hide and seek in the weeds.

Tensions between parent and grandparents:

Palpable.  Painful.  Predictable.

The daughter who made choices 

They refused to accept;

The parents who would not, 

Could not, 

Shed their shoulds.

They of the generation that lived supposed-tos, 

Stayed in the boxes, followed the rules, 

Because there WERE no other options.

She of the baby boomers 

Who set the rules on fire,

Followed their passions, 

Played with fantasy and fancy,

Created options, alienated family.

The daughter being judged, 

Criticized for impossible paths taken.

The parents, being distanced,

Fumbled from the land of wrong.

I loved them all.

I wish my grandparents’ vision of their daughter

Included what I saw in my mom.

I wish her understanding of her parents

Held more of what I knew of my grandparents.

I wish there had been more time

With them all.

But, see, I couldn’t understand

The suffering wounds

Winding between them.    

I knew of it, a tiny bit of it.

Didn’t experience it, yet

Experienced my own pain.

While my grandparents never hurt me,

Their actions to my mother did,

The hurt ping-ponging

Across the generations.  

Now they are all gone.

Yet the tiny house in the redwoods remains,

And we adult children, too.

Age allows me to see,

Children occupy a space

Between parents and grandparents

That is simultaneously 

Fiction and faction.

About "Trinidad House, 1969": This poem had been percolating in my mind for a while. I have often thought about my grandparents, and how their gift of this house made such a tremendous difference in our lives growing up. What would it have been like, to be raised on welfare with a parent who struggled with many health issues, without permanent housing? I shudder to think. That the house was situated in such an abundant natural setting was a massive bonus. In this poem, I tried to capture the beauty of this gift, as well as the position of being a child between parents and grandparents who struggled to communicate and connect.

Poem #89, Strength in Number

by Emily Gibson, Mar 30, 2022

Stick together for 

Safety,

Security,

Strength.

We can weather anything

When we have number.

Alone, we dissipate,

Our path disintegrates, 

Vulnerable to Earth’s

Forces.  

In unity and collaboration,

Withstanding 

Becomes

Possible.   

About "Strength in Number": Out on yet another bicycle ride, the sky was solid blue. And then I saw a lone puff of cloud, with an even smaller wisp nearby. I started hearing this poem, as i thought about how a single cloud would quickly dissolve into the dry air, but many clouds together help avoid a similar fate. When I wrote this poem down, I felt it speaking about Ukraine, too, and how the strength of numbers would help the people stay strong.

Poem #90, To Be a Recovering Teacher  

by Emily Gibson, Mar 31, 2022

To be a recovering teacher 

means numerous things across

time and season…

Thrift stores don’t result

in stacks of treasures, each a

find with a lesson in mind.

Yearly taxes miss the educator deduction 

of a quarter thousand.  A well-known

undercount of 10 times that amount.

Late August brings a sigh. 

Gratitude for fall instead of

dread for the stress ahead.

Thanksgiving on the calendar?

Crafts of stars, window and woven,

just for friends and neighbor children.

Sunday afternoon, 5:00, indicates hours 

of weekend ahead, not scrambled prep

to avoid mayhem on Monday 8 am.

Sick and under the weather? Take 

a day off from work to recover, no 

worry about dreaded sub fallout.

It is these thoughts on which I focus,

if cavernous holes of lost joyful purpose 

threaten to bloom like toxic fumes.

Mostly, the other side of 30 years 

leading learning is a happy place,

of unstressed, well-earned rest.

About "To Be a Recovering Teacher":   Reading an article in a magazine, the author described themselves as a "Recovering Social Worker."  This phrase made me smile, and then I applied it to myself as a somewhat reluctant recently retired educator.  Often, I think about the time of year and what I would be doing or feeling if I was working in a school.  This is typically tinged with both sadness and loss, as well as appreciation, which this poem attempted to capture. I enjoyed playing with the 3-line structure, including a rhyme within the 3rd line.

Poem #91 Changes in Perspectives

by Emily Gibson, April 1, 2022

Below spread cauliflowers and flat spun sugar,

Mats of quilt batting and rice cooked on simmer,

Herds of sheep and pure white cream of wheat,

Moving at the whim of winds without a bleat.

Sadly not a herd dog to be found above grounds

Dotted with farm homes, ponds, and mounds.

All these clouds, with partner shadow shrouds

Staining squares and circles, now plowed,

With Rorschach tests in black blots of ink,

Oh people in planes, what do you think?

Patterns for minds and imaginations,

Knitted afghans and any number of fractions.

From this side of Earth’s moving shade

A smooth surface looks to be made:

As cream when whipped, the ripples

Line across the white like wrinkles

Or reflections of energy across fodder

Of corn or wheat and sand next to water.

All this, in the perspective flight brings 

To the land-bound going where wind sings.

About "Changes in Perspectives": Flying to Georgia, these were the clouds on the west half of Colorado, before we descended into Denver.  I enjoyed letting my imagination run wild, and playing with rhyming couplets.

That concludes the poems for this week!  I hope you enjoyed some of them for yourself or maybe found one you want to share with someone else.  Thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you over at the bicycle tour journal!