A Poem a Day, Week 35, August 27 to September 2, 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. Almost all of the poems for the 35th week of the year, August 27 to September 2, came from driving across Oregon, with my return from Santa Barbara and multiple trips from Bend to Salem for labs. In addition, a couple poems explore subjects of personal growth--my own and that of my grandfather.
I would like to remind listeners and readers that these are 1 or 2 day poems. This means they 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 unsteady on their feet. 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 #239, Shipwrecks
by Emily Gibson, Aug 27, 2022
I held on, too tight, to what I thought I
wanted, needed, used, would use, until it
all washed away in a shipwreck. I mourned
the loss, tried to regroup, rebuild. Then I
understood: what mattered was inside me.
So I held on, too tight, to what I thought
I was, would be, could be, but it drifted
away like sand strands between clenched fingers
of a fist at low tide. A new shipwreck.
All gone again. Tentatively, I held
my arms open, my mind open, to see
what would settle out from the waves. I learned
the moment is what I could use, what I
could be. And the next moment, and the next.
Like a surprise behind a door. Be the
door, be open, let it come true through you.
Poem #240, Effervescent Trees
by Emily Gibson, Aug 28, 2022
Effervescent trees
bubble in the wind,
flip-flop their
two-toned leaves
in the slightest breeze,
as they tip-toe
on the banks
of streams that chuckle
over rough lava tubes
impossible to smooth.
Poem #241, Raptor Uplift
by Emily Gibson, Aug 29, 2022
The sight of your wings,
open on the wind,
as you draft the world’s spin,
turns my mouth
into a grin.
Your spiral scree,
reaches my ear
and my spirit uplifts
with you.
Poem #242, A Lumberjack’s Joke
by Emily Gibson, Aug 30, 2022
Mysterious tree,
just one, in the swath of clearcut.
Why this one left? Alone?
The hillside expanse,
like a tiger’s loin,
looks moth-eaten,
with tufts of former forest.
So-called wildlife refuges
or owl nesting sites,
I guess.
But one tree?
Seems like a lumberjack’s
practical joke.
Poem #243, Porcupine Ridge
by Emily Gibson, Aug 31, 2022
As the silver of weathered burnt trunks
fills in from the ground up
with the green of new trees
eager to ascend
to soak up the sun,
the buzz-cut mountain
transforms
to a porcupine quill ridge.
Poem #244, An Artist Emerged
by Emily Gibson, Sept 1, 2022
Your artistry of hand-crafted home construction
limited your hands and eyes that craved more beyond
measure, cut, hammer, and drill. Dressed in khakis, orange
polo shirts, sturdy tan leather shoes and a green
puffy coat before they were popular. Reading
glasses ever almost lost. Worn silver lighter,
I can still hear the click. Knuckles lined with dings and
scrapes from ignored wounds. Child of depression era
parents, everyone counted on you to do the
right thing, step up, take care of it. Nothing about
you reeked creative, emotional expression.
Hollywood movie star looks with granite coolness,
our family Frank Sinatra complete with clinking
ice in whisky at night. What a surprise when you
became, emerged from your rigid cocoon for a
brief moment to paint an abundance of massive
watercolors. Like the dust a butterfly’s wings
leave behind when touched, your left legacy shimmers.
"Two Tailed Swallowtail" by Frank Hendricks, circa 1980s.
Poem #245, The Best on Display
by Emily Gibson, Sept 2, 2022
At the end of her shift, she still greeted customers with a joy
of arm gestures, a celebration of some triumph, tiny.
A clerk in a drug store who treated each customer like
an audition for a game show contest.
The station packed with tourists, he came up, silent,
took my credit card as I attempted a diesel fill up.
I mentioned the sign read “diesel customers, self-serve only.”
He smiled a single-toothed smile, said, “I got it.”
In the lab tech’s chair for a blood draw, he introduced himself.
Greg narrated every step of the process and made small talk
on the fires and smoke and heat, until 4 vials lay on the tray
and a Band-Aid covered the hole in my skin.
One day, three people,
humans at their best with jobs
they could be mediocre in.
Why not?
About "The Best on Display": This is the third poem that came from my drives to Salem this week. All three of these people I interacted with on one day. All three stood out with their investments in doing their jobs the best that could be done. They reminded me that attitude is a choice.
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!
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