A Poem a Day, Week 31, July 30-Aug 5

A Poem a Day, Week 31, July 30 to August 5, 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 31st week of the year, July 30 to August 5, find their origins in people I have crossed paths with, in nature, and in my healing work.  

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, with some gawky words here and there.  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!

Listen to Week 31 Poetry Podcast

Poem #211 Complacency Not Spoken Here

by Emily Gibson, July 30, 2022

Across this threshold, 

ye shall not pass

ever again.   

Nay, complacency, 

you are not welcome here,

no matter your sweet, honeyed words:

“You deserve a break”

“You’ve earned it”

“Just one won’t hurt!”

“Live it up a little!”

That slippery slope

would let go

the elements that

heal,

let go

the vigilance to

listen and respond

to what the body tells...

that downward slide only 

circumvents

where I

want to be,

where I am

healthy,

free,

me.

About "Complacency not Spoken Here": When my brother was visiting, and we talked about how far I have come in a year, he said, "Don't get complacent, keep doing what you are doing." Classic big brother advice! But it stuck with me. I have a "no complacency" sign on my office wall to combat the forces that might lure me to drop my guard.

Poem #212, Soaring Sequoia 

by Emily Gibson, July 31, 2022

Last week, a soaring 

sequoia of a man 

rejoined earth.

The mighty crash

punched a hole the size

of a small Oregon county

in the world.

Though the local seismograph

didn’t register the quake

of this gentle giant’s pass,

those who knew him

will likely feel the silent aftershocks

course through their every

move and memory

over the many moons ahead.

May the comfort, peace,

connection, laughter,

and adventure

Jerry distributed

like hard candy thrown

from a gaudy float in a 

summer parade

continue to rain down

on those who knew

his soaring tree.

About "Soaring Sequoia": A dear friend lost a son-in-law when his daughter lost her husband, Jerry. I wanted to honor him, for those he left behind. What a magnificent person. One who makes me glad to be human. And I only met him once, which shows how larger than life he was. Rest well, Jerry. You did good.

Poem #213, A Rebirth

by Emily Gibson, Aug 1, 2022

Gold 

sparks off 

blond stubble,

a halo of thistle down

bristling softs,

nestling sharps.

A being not to be trifled,

a mission etched in laser.

Not a star, 

for stars burn out.

Nor a warrior--

that must have a foe.

Nay, a universal keening,

a rebirth, this time 

to get it right,

to heal.

One step at a time

with ferocity,

Yes.  Yes. Yes.

This time, Yes.

About "Rebirth": I met someone who also has MS. She told me her long story of seeking healing, over decades. Most recently, she completed the stem cell treatment, which has given her new hope with increasing mobility instead of decreasing. I wanted to capture her light, and her hope, in this poem.

Poem #214, Milestones

by Emily Gibson, Aug 2, 2022

We climb the mountain of life,

celebrate with others elevation gains 

on our charted course.

As infants, after the first breath

of birth, milestones emerge,

at a rapid, almost breakneck pace.

Each bodily function, each burp, smile,

drool and poop bring cheers.

We master our toddler bodies,

take first steps that garner accolades,

until we become

unstoppable movement machines,

with our own direction and intention

that sparks parental concerns for safety.  

Our sphere grows and grows.

Childhood requires emotional control, 

to pause, breathe, and talk it out.  

We learn to take turns

and make and be friends.

Then, driven by DNA to differentiate,

we teenagers stretch and push

resist and then pull back like bungee cords

attached to our guardians,

who sigh (or more) in exasperation.

Yet this insistence on being US

it is as cute (and crucial) as the infant

discovering toes, truly.

Adulthood continues the milestones:

relationships and work dominate.

At some point, the mountain we’ve scaled

reveals the peak of our achievements.

We can stay there a while,

revel in mastery, 

invest in personal growth,

bestow wisdom to those

still in the climb up.

If given a full lifespan,

the journey down begins.

We relinquish milestones

in reverse, without fanfare or cheers,

though curiosity begs, what would THAT 

be like?  To celebrate with loved ones

and ourselves, each step down?

Memory falters, movement shrinks,

our sphere gets smaller and smaller.

It’s a world still awash in firsts,

first walker, first cane, first glasses,

first morning of retirement

first day as the oldest in the family.

As well as moments

we don’t know are lasts

until they pass:

last meal prepared on own,

last night in our own house,

last spring or fall.

And then, we let go

our very first milestone,

and exit with our last breath.

About "Milestones": I have often been struck by the symmetry of life, like a mountain. As well as how we view milestones differently at different stages of life. In my work as a teacher, I often talked about how we needed to view the difficult behaviors of late childhood/early adolescence as something to be celebrated as much as when children learned to walk or talk. The older I get, the more I think about how the late stage of our lives is a gradual letting go of all the abilities we acquired in order to live our lives. This poem serves to explore all of these ideas.

Poem #215, Serenity’s Radar

by Emily Gibson, Aug 3, 2022

I built a radar,

it took me years and years.

Its alarm blasts 

in my ears only,

its rack of emergency lights

alerts just my eyes,

its stink-bomb release

pricks my nostrils alone.

So be warned, all light-dimmers, border-crossers, self-snatchers,

peace-stealers, cloud-throwers, and mood-ventriloquists:

my serenity is not negotiable.

I no longer take shade 

from the shadow of others’ clouds.

The rooms of my mind 

can’t be leased at any price--

I permanently removed my mental temple

from the rental market. 

Go ahead, try to sneak in the back door

or pry open the kitchen window,

my radar is set to stun.

About "Serenity's Radar": This is meant to be a fun poem about a serious subject, that of protecting one's inner self from the harms, both purposeful and inadvertent or even well-meaning, from others. I liked how the language plays in this poem, with words running from one to the next, in rapid fire.

Poem #216, We are Nature 

by Emily Gibson, Aug 4, 2022

Trees could be our ancestors.

Our thumb prints mirror growth rings on a stump.

Our skin grows rough like bark as we age.

Our blood vessels fan out like a root system.

Our neural network spreads like a canopy of branches.

Our bones carry our weight like a trunk.

At our best, our social groups support like a forest.

We breathe out, trees breathe in,

Part of the same global family.

Meme that inspired this poem.

About "We are Nature": From the meme of a fingerprint and the rings of a tree grew this poem, comparing the structures of humans and trees. One of many poems I have written on the theme of structures that repeat in the universe, from a micro to a macro level.

Poem #217, The Greatest Artist 

by Emily Gibson, Aug 5, 2022

The universe is an artist--

all matter serves as both 

paint and canvas, instrument and music.

As human artists, we conceptualize

and craft from seeds 

planted by universal design.

The world is a cathedral soaring beyond sight,

an expansive art museum,

a concert hall of Grand Canyon proportions, 

a theater of possibilities and promise.

The greatest solace for human ills

can be found beyond the bounds

of our mind’s creations.  Go outside,

soak it in, this symphony,

this master canvas, 

this show of all shows.

Hopefully you will see

how you fit into this

greatest artist’s design.

Photo by Chris Kent, On a Mountain in central Oregon, 2022

About "The Greatest Artist": When I saw this photo by an acquaintance Chris Kent, this poem itched to be written. I will let it speak for itself.

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!