Saturday, June 25, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 25, June 18 to June 24, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 25, June 18 to June 24, 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 25th week of the year, June 18th to the 24th, find their origins primarily from various quotes and memes that passed across my desk in the last few weeks.  Each sparked a conversation in my head, which developed into a poem.  This week I sought to share these conversations with you and other readers.

It is worth mentioning 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 doing.  For now, they are freshly hatched, still a little awkward, maybe somewhat shaky in their steps.  Yet each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored, as part of my challenge.

As always, you can keep track of Sifting the Rubble's posts on the Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram platforms:


Facebook (daily posts) : 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!


Poem #169, We are Waves
by Emily Gibson, June 18, 2022


All energy travels through waves

only visible at their intersection

with an other.

Wind on trees or clouds,

Water on shores or boats,

Sound on ears or plucked strings.


We are energy beings.

Who we are, 

how we meet the world,

translates into waves.

Our energy becomes visible

in the feelings of others.


How do we reach others’ shores?

A crash and thunder of ourselves

or a gentle lap of invitation,

a hold back of our tidal swells 

to give space for others’ energy,

or a graceful tube of curl 

for others to surf through.


And what kind of shore

are we, in receipt

of others’ energy waves? 

A soft sandy place for rollers

or rocky crags fracturing their waters,

a stone wall, impervious and impenetrable,

or protective and resilient when necessary,

a low atoll endlessly submerged,

or a strong push back surge

that forces a crest midway in wasted energy.


I think being mindful is to purposefully

choose our waves going out,

and the receptivity of our shores.


About "We are the Waves": This poem came to me after many days of ruminating on the repeated patterns in the world, from organization of atoms and solar systems, to the ways that blood cells travel in arteries and water travels in rivers. This vision of energy waves developed from those ruminations.



Poem #170, Alone
by Emily Gibson, June 19, 2022


Alone

A quiet space.

The company of one.

Chance or choice, alone is a gift.

Insight.


About "Alone": This poem follows the strict form of an American Cinquain, with syllables in a 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 pattern. I had the idea of how being alone is a gift, whether we choose it, or it is forced on us. I like how the formal structure made me focus deeply on the idea without wandering in the weeds of words.



Poem #171, Meaning of Life
by Emily Gibson, June 20, 2022


Meaning of life?

Only humanity asks,

and asks, without satisfaction,

no matter the sage advice.

Life, to a tiger salamander,

a five-finger fern,

or a crane fly

has meaning, assured.

No monumental gesture

of architecture

or work of art

or land conquest

motivates their lives.

All life seeks the same:

torch of DNA passed on.

Simple, perhaps.

Yet each life is a 

cathedral

of hope.


About "Meaning of Life":  This poem originated with a story/quote of a person asking an ancient wise leader about the meaning of life. The reply was that life is the opportunity to create meaning.  This poem represents my thinking on this, and how humans often seem to gift themselves with a corner on the market of meaning and reduce the other animals to lives without meaning.  I believe animals show us how to focus in the moment, and how to simplify, if we will notice.  


Poem #172, Money Cannot Satisfy
by Emily Gibson, June 21, 2022


Money cannot satisfy hunger,

despite the purchase of food;

it can’t bring inspiration,

though it can supply the tools;

it can’t create beauty,

unless beauty exists already;

it can’t procure an education,

although schooling occurs;

it cannot guarantee artistry

with the price of a painting;

it cannot bestow rest,

no matter the price of the vacation.

Money can buy the opportunity,

but only you can realize the dream


About "Money Cannot Satisfy": Rooted in a meme about what money can't buy, I played with the form to create my own list and meaning.


Poem #173, Cynefin
by Emily Gibson, June 22, 2022


Connection to all around you

yearns in every heart.  Hear

nature’s call to be in and with

earth’s place of right.

Feel with your skin and spirit,

island of perfect, for you.

Nestle down, make yourself home.


About "Cynefin": Cynefin (from Welsh) means a place where a being feels it ought to live. It is where nature around you feels right and welcoming. A "word of the week" that begged me to write more. I tried the structure of an acrostic poem, with the first letters of each line spelling the word Cynefin.



Poem #174, Real Journey
by Emily Gibson, June 23, 2022


We are born knowing our real work, 

the purpose of our journey in life.

We spend our childhoods forgetting

as we learn how our bodies

and the world work.

Spend our adolescence forgetting,

as we figure out how relationships

and expectations of others work.

Spend our early adulthood forgetting

as we figure out how to make a living,

a family, a life.

Until we look up, lost, and wonder

about our life’s purpose and journey.

Then we go back, back, back,

through our memories,

back to before language,

when sensation was real,

and remember.

Then our real work begins.


About "Real Journey": This poem was born from a Wendell Berry quote: When we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey.”  It relates to my own work, trying to uncover my purpose and my good work to still be done.



Poem #175, Long-term Thinking

by Emily Gibson, June 24, 2022


Long-term thinking 

means putting your cereal dish in the sink

now

instead of later, when it will scowl at you

along with other dishes in random places.

It means filling that dish with warm water

now

instead of later when it will be hard and crusty

and twice as difficult to clean.

It means putting a bit of soap on a scrubber

now

instead of later when the water will be cold

and cloudy with oily residue.

It means taking a moment to wash that dish

now

instead of later.

Long-term thinking

doesn’t actually take 

long.


About "Long-term Thinking": Another quote I saw this week about how the investments we make in the short term, like 30 minutes spent learning a new skill, can have benefits that far outlast that initial expenditure of energy and time. The notion of long-term thinking became this poem.


And that concludes Sifting the Rubble's poetry for this week! I hope you enjoyed this collection of poems. Perhaps some of them spoke to you, or maybe you found one begging to be shared with someone else.  If so, I hope you will pass it on!  Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!

Saturday, June 18, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 24, June 11- June 17, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 24, June 11 to June 17, 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 24th week of the year, June 11 to June 17, find their origins primarily from introspection on life, health, and healing.    As I navigate this healing journey, as I sift the rubble of my once-life to figure out what I will do next,  I keep circling back to the importance of simplicity, of focusing on the present, and taking time to listen to the people and the world around.  This week, I strove to listen deeply and reflect back the lessons I heard.

It is worth mentioning 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 doing.  For now, they are freshly hatched, still a little wet around the ears, maybe somewhat awkward at times.  

As always, you can keep track of Sifting the Rubble's posts on the Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram platforms:

Facebook (daily posts) : 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!


Poem #162, Survival as Resistance

by Emily Gibson, June 11, 2022 


Suppose survival is life’s resistance

to inanimate ravages, wrought

by earth’s elements, and time.

A cypress rooted on a sea cliff,

only needles of securest attachment

remain,

greening its windward side,

like tiny feathers in hats held on heads by hands

in a sudden gale at a county fair.

A limpet’s proper size--that Goldilock’s ratio

of muscled foot to conical shell’s height--

ensures

fixed security despite tidal swells,

like suction cup handles

on glass windows in transport.

A clunker of a car, rusted beyond repair,

still moves down the street on worn tires,

powered

by its engine, as long as the fuel tank is full,

like an elder, skin heaped around bones,

holding a being that still sings of tomorrow.

Aye, rather than deny the ravages

I will call them battle scars

to display with pride.


About "Survival as Resistance": The phrase survival as resistance really struck me because I tended to view survival as more of a passive construct.  We survive by enduring, by putting up with things, by lasting longer than that which challenges us.  But survival as resistance conjures up a more active process.   A refusal to give in to the ravages of time turns the physical disintegration with age into something to be borne triumphantly.   A way of shouting, "I'm still here!"  I like that.


Poem #163, Small Things

by Emily Gibson, June 12, 2022 


Do the small things well,

until the rest takes care of itself.


A bee gathers its pollen

one grain at a time,

until the sun blazes gold

on thick legs flying home.


A roofer lays tiles 

in mind numbing rows

until the pattern releases

unexpected  beauty.


A hawk sustains its chicks

one rodent at a time

until the fledglings fly

to hunt their own.


An infant learns each toe,

one by one, right and left,

until it trusts them all

to be there, and walks.


One different step today

can build what you dream,

eventually.


About "Small Things": It is easy to get lost in the weeds of doing, which has been a theme I touch upon frequently in my poems. I read a meditation about small things adding up to larger things and thought about examples of this playing out in life.   I like to hope that the little, different steps I am taking in regards to my health, the way I respond to stressors, and how I am noticing the world will eventually emerge into something I can't even imagine right now.


 Poem #164, Prescription for Healing

by Emily Gibson, June 13, 2022 


A prescription for healing.

A list to keep handy.

A recipe for me.


Nutrition that satisfies my senses:

A crisp apple that explodes tart and sweet,

An immense salad, like green lace to eat,

A bowl of oats coats slumbering fat raisins,

A mug of tea, so fragrant a bee dips in.


Exercise that wakens my senses:

A wander on blown shores for an unturned stone,

A drift in a garden, to tender leaves I have known,

A roll in warm-cold dapples on a well treed road,

A hike to a precipice, to see where earth has flowed.


Relationships that open my senses:

A stranger who helps me think something I ought,

A friend who visits often, to tell stories I forgot,

A child still open to what they might measure,

A look from a love, who still sees a treasure.


Events that set senses afire:

A new book found by the color of its spine,

An old joke, told again, funny as the first time,

A new recipe of challenge, ingredients for conquering,

A thrush's sound offering, well-practiced, it sings.


Everyone needs a healing package

for times without meaning,

when we find ourselves 

mourning gratitude.


About "Prescription for Healing": In Women Rowing North, the author recommends making a prescription for healing, with a list of the things that bring peace to your body and spirit and reconnect you to gratitude.  As I wrote my list, it turned into this poem.  The rhythm and rhyme in this poem strikes me.  I still want to work more on this one, but this draft will do for now.  


Poem #165, That Which Endures

by Emily Gibson, June 14, 2022 


I seek to make peace 

with the vessel my soul chose

for this rotation on Earth…

The odd bend to that elbow,

The gnarled knuckle of one thumb,

That almond shaped face,

The flat-yet-strong rump,

The jut of that chin above 

The strings of a long neck,

That too-thick straw-colored hair,

Those short-wide feet, those hammer toes...


While it often defies my species’

predilection for sameness

along certain angles,

in particular seasons,

I’ve made peace with every bit

of this skin I live in.

It’s a beauty like fine wine

lit from within

and sprinkled with sparks.

Yet this vessel will fade

of that I am sure,

unlike the ripples of my

actions and words,

which will endure.


About "That Which Endures": Keeping to the theme of aging and focusing on what really matters, our society's obsession with the package, instead of character and behavior, leapt out to me with this poem. So much of the messaging we receive is centered on gaining approval of strangers who will never know us, just see us passing on the street. I'd rather center on my spirit and helping others. That lasts.



Poem #166, Fika, from Swedish

by Emily Gibson, June 15, 2022


Want to know what “fika” means?

Slow down until you see the world

as a tortoise with its toes 

in the hot sands of a lost desert.

Slow down until you feel the world

as a weeping willow with roots in a river 

and leaves in the whispering wind.

Slow down until you hear the world

as a hummingbird’s egg feels every 

vibration like a drum’s chamber.

Slow down until you taste the world

as a sloth discerns the difference 

between every leaf on its tree.

Slow down until you smell the world

as a common garden snake senses 

every living cell of every being.

Slow down, take a moment,

appreciate the good in life.

Then, you will know what “fika” means.


About "Fika, from Swedish": I recently signed up to receive a "word of the day" in my inbox. Sometimes the words truly get me thinking, like "fika." For some reason, this word's Swedish origin made it ripe for visualizing examples from the natural world to illustrate what it meant.


Poem #167, Joy

by Emily Gibson, June 16, 2022













You were joy

encapsulated in a boy.

You let each experience

seize your heart.

You said “yes”

to what life offered.

Like most kids

you wanted fun.

As a dog dives into a pool, 

over and over after its ball,

you went headlong

and tried it all,

as if the world

was a safe place.

I hope that 

is still true.


About "Joy": Once upon a time, we hosted a boy from China while he was in the states, going to school. He was struggling with language and with finding connection with his host family, but was too young to live in the dorms at this Buddhist school. I worked with him as a tutor, and we offered our home as a place for him to finish the year before returning to China. We lost touch a few years after his family picked him up. When I saw this photo from a visit to my brother's pool, I remembered how much sheer exuberance and joy he brought with him to everything he encountered.


Poem #168, Cheerful House

by Emily Gibson, June 17, 2022


Oh sing, you cheerful house,

when sun streams through frayed curtains,

and the dust motes dance.

Yes, sing, you cheerful house,

as rain drums upon tight skylights

and windows mirage to visible rivers.

Your door opens inward, so people

can bring the world with them

and all the news we missed.

Oh sing, you cheerful house,

may each of your seams

always burst with life. 


About "Cheerful House": This poem was sparked by the line "visitors coming and going makes a house cheerful" in a book I am reading. I like to think that houses have characters of their own. One of my favorite books growing up was "The Children of Green Knowe" by Lucy Boston, which is where I learned of the English custom to name houses. This house's name is cheerful.


And that concludes Sifting the Rubble's poetry for this week! I hope you enjoyed this collection of poems. Perhaps some of them spoke to you, or maybe you found one begging to be shared with someone else.  If so, I hope you will pass it on!  Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!

Poem a Day Week 52, Dec 24-30

   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. ...