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.
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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.
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.
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.
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