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 34th week of the year, August 20 to 26, were inspired by the natural world of central Oregon, my healing work, and a whirlwind adventure of a trip to Santa Barbara to see my partner Jay's daughter at UCSB.
I will mention 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 a bit wobbly in the knees. Yet each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored, as part of my challenge.
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And now, for this week's poems!
Poem #232, Webs of Life
by Emily Gibson, Aug 20, 2022
We lived in a cobweb,
a crowded place filled with
carcasses from the past
and detritus of the present.
At times it transformed into
an orb web strung with dew,
shot through with lines of delight.
Those times shocked our lives
with brilliance. Remembered, they
sparkle, settle my heart,
and fill my head with wonder.
These sandy memories
are all I allowed myself.
Survival in that web of dark
took strength and skills.
We crafted tools of protection:
honed sharp, lined with barbs,
they stuck to our own skin,
long past expiration dates.
From this tangled chaos,
on the cusp of maturity,
we emerged, blinked in the sun
and found our individual ways.
Each of us mined that cobweb
for silver and gold--
enough to weight a suitcase
heavy with treasure.
Unnoticed, shards shimmied
into nooks and crannies of luggage,
hidden, ready to puncture our balloons
as we rose above and traveled
on our silks in search of homes.
We separately refused to look at what was,
it felt like betrayal--
we knew what our spider mother
wove from her past,
the sacrifice, her effort to shield us
from her family strands
stretched back multiple generations.
Gratitude could not share space,
left no place for our hurt or confusion.
Time passed, taught that we
had to see it,
had to go back
and save ourselves
from the corners where we crouched,
ears covered to block out
noise and fear.
So now we walk
similar paths of discovery,
weaving new webs.
We unpack our suitcases completely,
shake out the shards,
say goodbye to the voices inside
that kept us hidden.
Accept the good,
name the bad,
feel free to love what was
and now is.
Growth is not inevitable,
but it sure looks good on you.
Poem #233, Dry Ice Dust
by Emily Gibson, Aug 21, 2022
Yesterday, my horse’s hooves brushed the sand
at a just-right height, when the temperature
was just so, and the wind hovered like a
hummingbird, to create a dry ice dust.
It floated for a moment, hugged the curves
of the ground like fog, before grainy parts
fell, too heavy, and the rest settled, light.
Then his next step sent dust aloft again.
Poem #234, What Egg?
by Emily Gibson, Aug 22, 2022
What wise avian parent disposed this shell
in a location far removed from hatchling's peeps,
to distract predators predisposed to
oviparous delicacies?
Though not the shocking blue
of robin eggs or the tiny fragment
of half a hummingbird egg
I sought on childhood walks,
this shell, today, delights
my senses just as much.
Eggshell found on ground.
About "What Egg?": This poem is simply a narration of my thoughts upon finding this shell. I wasn't sure if it was left by a predator after eating the insides, or if it was dropped by a parent to distract predators. During composition, I chose the latter.
Poem #235, Ponderosa Benthamiana
by Emily Gibson, Aug 23, 2022
On this day, your needles stood out
though my eyes know you well,
of that there is no doubt.
The shape of your tufts delight,
how your needles sprout
evenly from each central whorl,
like a mechanically spaced cloud.
From below, in your shadow,
your branches darkly crowd,
to capture sun’s light for growth.
At tuft’s end, rays find a route,
light up each needle’s tip,
then reach my forest hangout,
in green-tinted sunbeams.
Ponderosa branches, seen from below, at Lake Siskiyou.
About "Ponderosa Benthamiana": As this poem describes, I have looked at, and overlooked, Ponderosas many times. This time was different. The beauty of the needles against the blue! I sought to put those differences into words. The first lines of the couplets rhyme, or near rhyme, but I did not use a syllable count for lines.
Poem #236, Satellite
by Emily Gibson, Aug 24, 2022
I landed in your orbit,
a satellite of little influence.
I sought to do no harm,
to be a positive element
in your periodic table,
reflecting back to you
your beauty and confidence.
It is a privilege to watch
your navigation of life.
From my vantage point,
out here, a star afar,
you are totally rocking it.
Poem #237, Tumbleweeds of the Seas
by Emily Gibson, Aug 25, 2022
Along the shore they lie motionless,
the sea’s winds powerless
to budge them any bit.
Once scattered by waves,
now immobilized by tide’s turn,
like tumbleweeds on a desert
floor after the wind quiets.
Weighted with sand, shells,
rocks, strands of seaweed,
plankton’s abandoned egg sacs,
and an abundance of exoskeletons,
they await the moon’s tug,
to move freely, again.
Beach below UCSB, Goleta, CA.
About "Tumbleweeds of the Seas": As soon as I saw these root balls of kelp, I thought about the tumbleweeds in central Oregon and wanted to write this poem, playing on the similarities of water and wind.
Poem #238, Emotional Sobriety
by Emily Gibson, Aug 26, 2022
Thought I was so much better
since I eschewed intoxicants.
From an early age I abstained
substances eaten, smoked, and
ingested from outside.
When offered, whether legal or not,
No, I said, with firm resolution.
I don’t want to lose reality,
I don’t like to lose control.
I don’t need to hide from life.
Smug satisfaction.
The joke was on me, I guess.
Pain is pain.
My reality? Illusion.
My control? Ephemeral.
Yes, I hid from my life light,
lost to my inner drug store’s
intoxicants of fear, over-commitment,
showing up late, procrastination,
shame, self-criticism...
Under the influence,
on the inside,
ensured my isolation.
It is time to sober up.
