Friday, September 30, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 39, Sept 24 to 30, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 39, Sept 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 39th week of the year, September 24 to 30, found their origins in the onset of fall, poetry prompts, interesting words, and a bike ride on the Tualatin Scenic Bikeway.  

I would be remis if I didn't 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 doing. For now, they are new, not quite steady or solid, but each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored. It is 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 #267, Red Bug Odds  

by Emily Gibson, Sept 24, 2022


What are the odds that two

red-backed bugs with wavy feelers

and black legs that ended in flat bug feet--

like yellow legs from the

Cootie game (™ Schaper 1976)--

would choose nearly the same minute

to walk across the same picnic table 

at the same rest stop

along the Banks-Vernonia

Rail Trail in Oregon?

Nearly the same odds that I

would choose that same morning

to cycle that same trail

and stop at the exact table

where two red bugs walked.

Glad I am at those odds.



About "Red Bug Odds":   This poem captures a moment when I was glad for my naturalist's eye.  These two bugs were of completely different species, both red but one shiny and the other muted, one easily 3 times the size of the other.  They were walking on opposite sides of the picnic table. Just a moment of perfect timing.  I look forward to revising this poem.


Poem #268, A Course of Horse 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 25, 2022


The horse I pulled handfuls of grass for just to hear her nicker

The horse I visited three times a day for my survival

The horse I raced bareback on the beach

The horse who jumped me over a dead sea lion

The horse black as just poured tar

The horse who’s greatest gift was not softening

The horse who stayed until he could not stand

The horse I helped as it suffered until its owner could let go

The horse I rediscovered my confidence with

The horse I said no to 

The horse who blocked everyone out, but me

The horse who froze at sight of a log that looked like a bear

The horse who mirrored my feelings until I understood

The horse who left too soon and left regret in its place

The horse I tried too hard with

The horse that I didn’t try hard enough to know

The horse I brushed but never rode

The horse I loved

The horse that hated alfalfa

The horse who bucked me off 4 times in one day

The horse who left me on the trail after a 180 turn

The horse I gentled who changed me

The horse I took to four states

The horse I buried in the 3rd state

The horse with a spirit out of reach, buried in unkindness

The horse I spent 30 years with in Humboldt County

The horse I spent 3 hours with on a beach in Mexico

The horse that looked on in amusement as I I hauled hay up a hill on a hand-built sled

The horse I built five fences for

The horse with perfect, hardy hooves I learned to trim on

The horse who needed the most absurdly expensive farrier just to walk

The horse who still fertilizes a garden, from underneath, now

The horse I wish I’d done better for

The horse I learned to ride on

The horse I introduced a saddle to

The horse who was putty in a veterinarian’s hands

The horse who grew two feet and snorted at sight of  the vet’s truck

The horse I can still smell, and the one I can still feel

A herd of fifty years of horses thunder through my memory.

Thanks to a girl with glasses who moved to my town in 5th grade.

The new kid outcast and me, the misfit poor kid mixed a friendship

Of untouchable magic woven amid our last years of childhood

with her six horses and ponies in that small seaside town.




About "A Course of Horse": Inspired by a blog about list poems, which mentioned Raymond Carver's "The Car." Essentially, take something that matters a lot to you, and make a list until you see the poem emerge. I enjoyed reflecting on my life-long love of horses, and their constant presence in my life. It really started with a friend in elementary school and her herd of horses and ponies. The photo is one my brother took of us riding two ponies, Fanci and Sunny. Here is the blog post about list poems for anyone interested in Raymond Carver's poem, or list poems in general: List Poems - Institute for Writers   


Poem #269, Pool Party

by Emily Gibson, Sept 26, 2022


I remember our porch pit stop on flight paths of birds,

like Hobbits with first breakfasts and before lunch snacks,

to eat like a bird is to eat like a horse:

all day, every opportunity, anything in sight.

Our bird feeders of seed, nectar, suet,

lumps of peanut butter or margarine in lean times,

decorated the porch railings high and low

giving our front window a feathered picture show.

A water stop wasn’t necessary

in our lush Redwood forest of home.


I learned their names and calls, can remember them all:

Blue-jays, juncos, hummingbirds, wild pigeons and doves,

pileated woodpeckers, robins, yellow-bellied sap suckers, 

even occasional hawks on the hunt.

Most memorable were the chickadee chicks

who grew up on our porch, their proud parents

paraded wide, yellow-mouthed babes

fluffed to twice adult size as they cried “feed me”

in chickadee chirps. Two hatchings each season.


I left home, and save a hummingbird feeder in Idaho,

never fed wild birds again.  Cost and responsibility

the prohibitive elements.  How our mom afforded

bird seed and suet in the Seventies, on Welfare

remains a mystery.  Probably cheaper than 

cable TV and video games and birds

never broke or led to boredom.


This summer, front and back lawns sport

pit stops for parched high desert birds

in the heat and smoke of our summer.

Their world full of seeds and bugs and worms,

no need to feed them.   Not Hobbits, this region’s

birds, but camels, with liquid blue maps of their world. 

Just two trays, filled every day, but bird word

spread as fast as a tweet on twitter, ‘til from our blinded 

windows we see them cycle in, as if on timers.


The bird convoy has changed a bit,

still blue jays, flickers, robins, and wild doves,

plus a steady stream of drab-colored, small 

seed and bug eaters with names yet a mystery to me, 

but at least five species that I can see.

Most enjoyable is a rowdy brood of anonymous 

flycatchers who descend to our water hole 

and turn it to a lawn pool party

for daily baths and beverages.

A marauding horde of nearly ten that 

absorbs water like feathered sponges.



About "Pool Party": What began as water stations during the fires that raged around central Oregon this summer has continued as a delightful wildlife viewing opportunity. I had no idea there were so very many birds around our house, nor that they would enjoy a water stop so much. The family of brown birds described makes a daily visit to drink and bathe, and when all ten are in the tub, it looks like a pool party, hence the poem's title.



Poem #270  Slow Drip 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 27, 2022


Your slow drip of resentment--

unconscious,

like an IV of 

anger--

creeped insidiously 

across the floor

of my childhood,

the way an innocuous

amount of water can spread

miles

before you even notice

the tipped glass.

Like an infant spittlebug

I cocooned in the froth of your 

rage--legitimate though

misdirected to innocents.

It infused my cells.

I could not escape

my inheritance of

judgment,

until illness

showed me how.


About "Slow Drip":   I think we all are survivors in some way. There were many good and happy moments in my childhood, many which I have written about and will continue to write about. As part of my healing with MS, I have needed to look clear-eyed at it all, so I could let go what I no longer needed. This poem is not directed at any specific individual, it is more an expression of how children soak up what they are steeped in, and how it can take them a lifetime to figure that out and disinherit what they no longer want.



Poem #271, Mountain Shore  

by Emily Gibson, Sept 28, 2022


A mountain line

below a smoke free sky

became a shoreline.

Westerly winds brought 

the first line of fire’s discharge

like gray cotton candy 

or quilt batting

stretched thin.

Land lifted it up 

memory’s eyes saw a mirage,

a fog bank risen from the sea.

Mountains turned dark in layers

like magnets might attract 

the iron of smoke,

until the ash of burnt catches up,

the point tips, 

the sky turns brown.


About "Mountain Shore": After a week without smoke in our skies, the wind slowly brought it back. First with wispy bits of fog that gathered into eventual brown, smoke-stained skies. I wanted to capture this moment, and the double-take my brain did, thinking it was a fog bank.



Poem #272, Warmth 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 29, 2022


Fall is here, in this photo,

in my brother’s rust overalls, 

our Mom’s flaming hair and 

buttoned scarlet velvet shirt,

our dog’ Mouse’s leather collar

and gray coat of curly fur,

the warmth of my teal sweater’s wool,

a thick redwood trunk behind us.

Close, warm, we all 

look to the camera

while Mouse looks at us.
















About "Warmth": This poem goes with one of my favorite early childhood photos, from the year (1969), when we moved to the little house in the redwoods. It symbolizes fall for me and the incredible memories of that season in our redwood grove. This day and time of year is also always a reminder of when our mom died. So I wanted to write a poem for her, today.


Poem #273, Pine Needles  

by Emily Gibson, Sept 30, 2022


Toasted brown, like

kiln-baked ceramic strands,

these bundles of three 

crunch under my tread

as uncooked spaghetti noodles

or ramen before liquid might.

Discarded, tree’s purpose served,

ready for their next lives

as woven baskets

garden compost

whisk brooms

rodent nests…

One being’s discards,

wanted.



About "Pine Needles":  I wrote this poem after walking on a sidewalk covered with them. This was my attempt to capture the sound and feeling of them crunching underfoot, and my musings on nature's waste products that go on to new purpose.


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!

Monday, September 26, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 38, Sept 17 to 23


A Poem a Day, Week 38, Sept 17 to 23, 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 mostly light-hearted poems for the 38th week of the year, September 17 to 23, found their origins in the onset of fall, poetry prompts, interesting words, and another cycling visitor.  

I would be remis if I didn't 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 doing. For now, they are new, not quite steady or solid, but each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored. It is 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 #260, Autumn as a Person
by Emily Gibson, Sept 17, 2022

Fauntleroy was gifted the nickname Fawn
for his tendency to drop things that had
served their purpose, like old lists and used socks;
as well as his will to hide in leaf piles
and penchant to freeze when frightened. Fawn’s hair?
Flaming red, of course, in waves, that he grows
long all year, and shaves for Winter Solstice.
Nothing says “the light gets longer from here 
on out” like a bald head. Taller than most, 
Fawn likes to carry kids on his shoulders
so they can touch the tallest trees. At 
the 
first sign of cooling air in September, 
he pulls his knee-length, rust-colored wool coat 
with a shawl collar out of its mothball 
sanctuary.  His favorite music is 
Copeland’s Appalachian Spring, with Joplin’s 
Maple Leaf Rag a close second.  Fawn learned 
to play the harp in college. He said it 
sounded like frost as it crept across twigs. 
Fawn's eyes are a tawny brown, similar 
to a lion’s, and his voice a gentle 
tenor, what brown might sound like if brown had 
a sound. As a school child, Fawn loved arts and 
crafts projects for October, when classmates 
clamored for a share in his special box 
of sixty-four Autumn Colors that his 
grandmother gifted on his birthday--the 
Autumnal Equinox, of course--each year.
Personally, Fawn can seem hot and cold,
comes on strong like a warm wind, then turns an 
abrupt cold shoulder. This makes it hard for 
Fauntleroy to find friends. While Spring was a  
good companion in high school, work makes it 
impossible to meet up these days. Now,
the moon, sun, and wind are Fawn's best friends. 

About "Autumn as a Person":   A poetry prompt instructed writers to write about spring as a person. Since the season is fall, I switched to Autumn.  Just a fun poem to play with personification, using a ten-syllable line structure. 



Poem #261, Pochemuchka (Po-she-mush-ka)
by Emily Gibson, Sept 18, 2022

Puppies, kittens, and babies' eyes, why do they often change color?
Octopuses have 8 legs. Why not ten or six or 20?
Clouds are white, but you can’t touch them. How do they have color?
How does gelatin become solid, and why can’t we put pineapple in it?
Elephants have tails but they are so small. What are they used for?
Mummies were people, but they aren’t all mothers, so why call them mummies?
Under sea animals breathe water except mammals, why is that?
Can a wet bird fly as far or as fast as a dry bird?
How does grandma’s love compare to your love?
Kangaroos have tiny T-Rex arms, but what do they use them for?
Ah, always ask questions, young ones, and change the way we all see.


About "Pochemuchka":    Reading a list of words from languages other than English that were recommended as prompts for poetry, I found this word, pochemuchka, which is Russian for the curiosity of children and the many questions they ask.   I thought it would make a fun list poem of questions children might ask, which also might cause readers to pause and think.   I utilized the structure of an acrostic poem, with the first letters of each line spelling pochemuchka.



Poem #262, Yaron Banai
by Emily Gibson, September 19, 2022

A mango farmer arrived yesterday
riding a mango-flesh colored bicycle.
When my writing group heard him speak
in the background when I unmuted on Zoom,
they asked where the grandfather
from a European Country came from.
Not Europe, but Israel, Sea of Galilee
to be precise, with a thick accent, raised 
on a Kibbutz where he learned to farm cotton.
On bicycles he has traveled the world
in bits and pieces here and there,
from Japan to Africa, always with friends.
This time, he rides solo for 2400 miles 
on the Sierra Cascade route, a mere 133K feet 
of elevation gain, Canada to Mexico, a bargain 
complete with extreme weather variables.
This wise athlete chose to trial an E-bike.
Still an enormous passage, but now the challenge
includes the need for power sources for bike batteries.
Safe journey to you, Yaron Banai.



About "Yaron Banai":   We hosted a touring cyclist from Israel this week. Such a grand time! In this poem I sought to capture some highlights of the memorable experience. I want to work more with this poem, as it feels pretty rough still.



Poem #263, Pareidolias
by Emily Gibson, Sept 20, 2022

Everywhere I go, I see them: pareidolias.
Eyes peer out, faces emerge, hands or hooves stretch
Bodies writhe and dance, bow and jump,
Wilds enlivened by the breaths of winds.

On my back I stretch, and see a tree above a skylight. 
Wait, is that a horse head in the leaves?
Each day, a new one nods beside the original.
Four arched necks, like chess pieces, now supervise.

Along a street lined with sapling trees, each
transforms to a leafy creature’s celebration.
Mountains slumber with animals and people,
a cacophony of beings resides in the clouds.

My secret companions since childhood.
Inhabitants, I thought, of a fairy world,
there to ensure I never felt too lonely.
To still have their presence is a gift.


About "Pareidolias":  I absolutely love pareidolias, or the seeing of animate objects within inanimate ones. Though typically people refer to human faces in objects, I notice many animals in my surroundings, on a daily basis.   This poem was inspired by the growing herd of leaf horses in the tree above my house, which I observe every day through a skylight while doing my exercises on a mat.



Poem #264, Reverse Spring
by Emily Gibson, Sept 21, 2022

Spring’s steady expansion of green
becomes Fall’s gradual recession of same.
Tree buds swell, open, fill their leaves.
Those same leaves lose their green
as color does drain from a face in the cold.
Spring’s progression of flowers open to
lure their pollinators, animal or mechanical.
Once seeds launch, fall composts petals and pods
next year's nutrient stores for new growth.
Spring, the great squanderer of resources, reverses to
Fall, the steady recycler of the no longer needed.

About "Reverse Spring":   In a conversation with a friend about the onset of fall, I mentioned I was still mourning spring, and wasn't ready for fall yet.  She thought I could consider fall as reverse spring. And a poem was born!  This is another one I want to work on more, as it is still pretty rough to my ears.



Poem #265, Thick
by Emily Gibson, Sept 22, 2022

The grief of trauma old
and buried is thick,
so thick it clogs
throat and lungs and nose
making breathing tough
when you begin its release.
Thick and sticky, it doesn’t
let go with ease.  Nay, it grew
cozy and comfortable in time.
With intention,
you root it out,
you remember,
and thick, 
the sludge
sloughs off
in tears and phlegm.
Keep at it, until
it flows clear and easy.


About "Thick":   Breaking with the light and playful flavor of most of this week's poems, this one attaches to my ongoing theme of trauma and recovery.  I wanted to capture how difficult this work is, while also conveying how trudging through the thick is the only way to get to where things flow more easily again.  




Poem #266, Nature Speaks
by Emily Gibson, Sept 23, 2022

"Crack--Crack--Craaak,"
Silence suspends seconds.
"Craaash!" An alder tree’s roots
Release, trunk shatters across a trail.

"Bugle--Buueegaaal--Bueueuegle"
bounces up a valley canyon's walls.
"Bustle-thunder." Elken hooves
crumble dried leaves to soil.

"Rustle-Shhhhh-Rustle,"
leaves feel the air,
the quiet feels a "Shush,"
we hold our breaths.

Nature speaks
when you are there
to hear.

About "Nature Speaks":   On a recent camping trip in the forests of western Oregon, these three moments stood out. All of them would have happened whether I was there to witness them or not.  I appreciated the opportunity to use onomatopoeia to capture the sounds I heard when nature spoke. Though it is challenging to read onomatopoeia out loud!


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, September 17, 2022

A Poem a Day, Week 37, Sept 10 to 16

A Poem a Day, Week 37, Sept 10 to 16, 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 37th week of the year, September 10 to 16, were born in events of the week, including more poetry prompts, self-reflection, and musings on nature.  

I would be remis if I didn't 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 doing. For now, they are freshly hatched, still a little wet around the ears. Yet each has something to say, so I share them, uncensored.  It is 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 #253, Web of Wonder

by Emily Gibson, Sept 10, 2022


I won’t pretend to comprehend the expanse of this life

with its possibilities of self-direction, choice, and decision;

its opportunity for distraction and wastage

weigh in each minute, and like specks of dust

the minutes add up.  Until we turn around to look back, 

and see that more time lies in the mountains behind

than the plains that stretch ahead.  A secret I will share, 

if you aren’t aware: no matter what time you have left, 

when you savor it, it slows down and you can touch it, 

and it lights your life aflame with desire for action.  

Passion to be, to do, to see, to taste it all.  

It is our great gift, each of us, to use this free will,

to weave our own web of wonder.


About "Web of Wonder": There were several sections in the Daily Stoic about self-will this week, which caused me to muse on time a bit. Life is so mystifying to me, when I slow down to think about it. There is a responsibility to use this life well, regardless of how much time we have. My favorite bit of this poem is the idea of seconds having weight like dust.


Poem #254, Complicated Grief

by Emily Gibson, Sept 11, 2022


Like wolf pups born into a long-persecuted pack,

or elephant calves in herds missing matriarchs,

children in families deep with traumas

have complicated grief.


The bravery and courage required to carry on with life

is only surmounted by that needed to unpack

that complicated grief.


The future of the pack, the herd, the family, does

depend on individuals who break rules to share

their complicated grief.


Less sure is what happens when an entire nation

is straightjacketed, shackled, and separated

by complicated grief.


It seems these suitcases we labor to carry have false 

bottoms we cannot reach, saturated by generations of sorrow.

Without truth told and heard, we will drown in our collective

complicated grief.


About "Complicated Grief": There are two parts to this poem's topic of complicated grief, one related to personal recovery and healing from trauma that has been passed down across the generations until a descendent takes the time to process and let go of the grief. The other is related to the collective grief of a nation. My country rests on complicated grief of land theft, slavery, and poverty. The publication of this poem on September 11 is no coincidence.




Poem #255, Origins of Silly 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 12, 2022


Where does silliness come from? 

An artesian well of the self,

it rises up, bubbles forth and dances

in a handstand on my shoulders.

It twists my insides like red and white 

pipe cleaners woven into a rotating barber pole,

until I feel I must spin and spin and spin.

Unlike its cousins, happiness and joy, 

silliness walks a fence that borders

the yard of totally out of control,

ever on the verge of a slip into the wild.

Any adult knows well the futility of retrieval

if a child falls off that fence. 

Only time brings them back!

Silliness can be found in ice breakers,

tension tamers and smile crackers.

It is an art to sprinkle silly among

students in just the right amount,

and a serious secret as well.


About "Origins of Silly": Another poetry prompt I found recently, this one asked poets to discuss the origins of a feeling. As a teacher, I know well the fine line between waking a class up with silliness, and completely losing control.

I chose silly because the image of walking that tightrope came to me, and felt like it would be fun to bring the origins of silly to life.



Poem #256, Royalty of a Feather

by Emily Gibson, Sept 13, 2022


I imagine the crow a rather regal creature

for the way they way walk and the reverence

or deference shown by other birds.

Through my human senses, the crow is

bland, boring, black-feathered, hoarse voiced.

Unlike a song-bird or hawk who’s calls my ears crave,

and opposite a canary finch or hummingbird who’s 

glorious plumage sends shivers down my eyes,

the crow barks in a 2-pack-a-day plus a fifth of whiskey voice,

the same sound over and over,  regardless of purpose.

And this bird stands stocky with black plumage that might 

have a gloss or purple hue in the right light.

But maybe, if I could see with bird eyes, 

the crow has feathers of rainbows, 

like an oil slick on a puddle.

Maybe, if I could hear with bird ears,

the crow speaks melodious nothings to its dears.

I think, someday, the crow will be crowned 

royalty of the avian kingdom. 


About "Royalty of a Feather": This is a poem that has been floating in my mind for quite a while, in bits and pieces. Crows and ravens are one of the most common birds where I live, so I get to study them a lot. They are difficult to know. Recently, I read an article about how birds eyes see things differently than human eyes because they have a 4th, ultraviolet detecting cone in their eyes. That was the impetus I needed to write this poem and pay homage to the Crow.




Poem #257, Dear Younger Self 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 14, 2022


Dear younger self, just out of college,

off to be a teacher and right the wrongs

of the world.  You fix and control,

coax and cajole, and race at a rapid

rushed rate, not knowing what you run

from.   I wish you could stop

and consider what our body needs.

I wish you would stop to put our self

first.  I wish you could stop to feel,

instead of the way you stuff it all under.   

I wish you would stop and heal wounds.

Instead you let them collect debris of our life.

It all festered fifty years until our body

said NO and stopped the train, got off,

and refused to listen to me until I 

changed my ways.  So I am.  

Better late than never makes

a lot more sense now.


About "Dear Younger Self": This prompt called for writing a letter from your younger self to your older self, but I flipped it the other way. It is somewhat a message to all young teachers, to be wary of the pull to do more, be more, and sacrifice the self. It is a slippery slope, until the body says no.



Poem #258, Seed Cousins 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 15, 2022


Cousins of the purple aster, 

the resemblance is clear:

diluted and off kilter, your genetic

fingerprints leave no doubt your ancestry.  

Both weeds, with hardy seeds

that fly to find suitable soil.

Geodesic domes of umbrella spines

with tiny parachutists joined in the middle.

One has the same tight flowers as the aster,

though purple they never are.

The other has the same upright, branched stems,

with flowers significantly larger.

Oh, yellow dandelion and goat’s beard, 

I let a few of you grow, just for the show,

and soon the world will be run over!

From you I learn the lesson of persistence:

no matter how many times you’re cut down

you just keep growing!

I’d like to run an experiment:

take an empty lot, plant

one dandelion in the middle.

After its clock strikes, the seeds 

spring off. Where will they grow?

I envision a mushroom fairy ring of green.



About "Seed Cousins": While pulling weeds from around a fruit tree in our front yard, I saw both of these seed heads. The one from the Goat's Beard stunned me with its flat sides and geometric design. I had never seen one like this, and I think the flower might have only partially fertilized, so fewer seeds matured. Either way, it inspired some research and then this poem.



Poem #259, Someday 

by Emily Gibson, Sept 16, 2022


Round scars the size of timber spike

nail heads mark both my knees.

Nearly 50 years since their birth,

in stumbles on a mountain of

old railroad ties, redwood slabs,

and beams salvaged by adults

with intentions of someday.

The removal of nails was also

something for someday.

My knee-jerk reaction to

“someday I’m gonna”

throbs in these scars.

This pile of massive tiddlywinks

became an unsanctioned

playground for my brother and I:

we walked the planks,

rode the teeter totter pieces

down, until they became ramps,

and I practiced gymnastic moves

on wobbly balance beams.

One day I shrieked after a fall

impaled my right knee on a nail head.

Blood ran down my shin.

The next day, it happened again,

this time my left knee cushioned my fall.

I learned the difficulty

bandages on knees bring:

whether placed horizontal

or vertical, they gap.

Before those first wounds healed,

unable to resist the lure of the pile,

I added new wounds

that ripped off still-tender scabs

and expanded future scars.

The timbers never were used.

They just rotted away in the

damp of the redwood forest

until all that remained

was a pile of rusty nails,

these scars on my knees,

and my determination to do

what I say I’m gonna do.




About "Someday": This poem started with a weekly poetry prompt from Rattle to write about a bruise or a scar, either internal or external. I immediately thought about my knees, as well as my knee-jerk reaction to "someday I'm gonna" so I wanted to explore this internal and external scar.


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. ...