A Poem a Day, Week 49, Dec 3 to 9, 2022

 A Poem a Day, Week 49, Dec 3 to 9, 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 49th week of the year, Dec 3 to 9, came from experiences of the week and prompts from Move Me Poetry on twitter.

With this week, we enter the final month of the year. Truly a milestone of my personal poetry challenge, with just 29 poems left for the year. I well remember writing that first poem and putting a courageous "Poem #1" before its title.  To be here is a celebration, not only of poetry, but my healing journey with MS.

I want to 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, as I sift the collection for poems I want to finalize. For now, they are new, not quite steady on their feet, but each speaks of something, so I share them, uncensored. It is part of my healing challenge to write a poem every day this year.

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And now, for this week's poems!

Listen to Week 49 Poetry Podcast

Poem #337, Adrift

by Emily Gibson, Dec 3, 2022

 

A harbormaster,

aghast at a dull gray

of a buoy in the bay,

pulled it ashore

to refresh its stripes

of red and yellow.

Whilst paint dried, 

an adventuresome ant

traced trails around

territory found aground.

Mid circumnavigation,

the ant became a float.

About "Adrift": I wrote this poem for Move Me Poetry's twitter poetry battle this week. The prompt was "buoyant." This vision came to me of an ant suddenly buoyant, so I won't apologize if you happen to groan at the pun! 

Poem #338, Boundaries More Beautiful in the Sky

by Emily Gibson, Dec 4, 2022

Photo credit: @theedemaruh

When the softest of clouds, 

separated by miles 

of thousands in height, each,

look to push together

like blown kisses released,

and collide on the same 

plain, it’s just fragile

boundary illusion,

like you and I, two half-

siblings with the same Dad.

Despite unquestioned

affection and respect,

we act as magnets flipped 

to repel. We never

chance to catch our family

reflection across this 

prickliest boundary.

The merest of miles feels

like thousands of thousands.

About "Boundaries More Beautiful in the Sky": This poem was inspired by a photo and caption by a fellow poet on twitter (@theedemaruh) who gave permission to use the image. I wrote this thinking about one of my brothers from another mother, who came into my life when I was around 11 and who I love dearly though we rarely see each other. 

Poem #339, The Suffering of Haves and Have Nots

by Emily Gibson, Dec 5, 2022

A staggering number

of the voiceless exist.

Unfathomable in quantity,

heaped like sand 

along a river that

stretches beyond 

the longest river of our 

Sun’s planetary system,

which we call the Nile.

We don’t, we can’t

think of all those grains

as individuals, like us.

We don’t, we can’t

consider their bare survival.

We don’t, we can’t

fight for their rights,

it’s too much, 

it overwhelms.

Until we need the sand

to make barricades

when placid rivers rise

to threaten invasions

of our personal homes.

Then we consider

how they’ll work 

for coffee 

or sandwiches,

maybe a shower

if they are lucky.

The equivalent 

of peanuts.

Our urgent haste

to protect possessions

blurs our vision

like stormwater.  

We fail to see: 

they deserve

so much more.

About "The Suffering of Haves and Have Nots":  A poem inspired by a text from my older brother, captured in the first two lines of this poem.  It sparked this image for me of grains of sand, and sandbags.  The lives of the voiceless are so often used as sandbags to staunch the tide of war and soak up the blood, yet their lives are worth nothing to those who don't have to think about them.

Poem #340, Offer it Up, (A Chant Poem) 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 6, 2022

They offer up pieces of themselves

beautifully, like kebobs of colorful fruit to be roasted.

We offer up pieces of ourselves

shyly, in dishes of winter mints that melt on tongues.

It offers up pieces of itself

tirelessly, as a chocolate fountain mirrors gravity.

She offers up pieces of herself

selflessly, until her thin candy shell threatens to crumble.

He offers up pieces of himself

boldly, strongly spiced to guard tender morsels.

You offer up pieces of yourself

freely, a lure of samples at a farmer’s market.

No different than the rest,

I offer up pieces of myself

humbly, as altar gifts to hungry ghosts of wonder,

and call them poems.

About "Offer it Up, (A Chant Poem) ": Tuesday's poetry prompt on Move Me Poetry was to write a Chant Poem. This form uses couplets and an ending stanza.  A repeated line runs throughout the poem to create rhythm. Here is my attempt, which used variations on a repeated line. 

Poem #341, If Calm was a Person

by Emily Gibson, Dec 7, 2022

I am forever ten 

and forever in between.

I’m the one who wears 

loose, flowy gowns

in gender-neutral colors,

regardless of the season.

Usually, I walk up AND 

downstairs, one at a time. 

My mom, Chaos, says I was adopted,

because my younger brother’s name

is Storm.  But my middle name is Lull,

so, I think she’s just blowing smoke.

I like to part my straight brown hair

right down the middle.

If I’m standing behind you in a line,

and I see you start to fume, 

I might say “In due time,”

or “Everything for a reason” 

then duck at your hurled profanity.

If my dad described me, he’d say 

I was buoyant.  But he did give me

my last name, Down.

My favorite color is light blue, 

and yes, I actually like elevator music! 

I am a yellow traffic light,

I am a seatbelt sign,

I am a cup of tea, an inside edgeless brownie,

a sighing tree, an off switch, 

and a gum-soled shoe.

I am Calm.

You can be me, too.

About "If Calm was a Person": Written to the prompt of personification, giving voice to something that does not have a voice. Personification of abstract nouns is one of my favorite poem challenges for how they effortlessly flow.  I enjoyed considering who and what Calm would be like, as a person.  

Poem #342, In Awe of Hydras, Part II 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 8, 2022

An aquatic Dorian Gray,

ageless, without morality

or mortality, yet susceptible

to digestion, evaporation

or poisonous salts.  

A living xerox machine,

with an eternal store of 

printer ink stem cells,

it makes a clone-- 

a full regeneration,

minus the test tube-- 

in all of twenty days.

Is it biological immortality 

or simply non-senescence?

If you blend a banana,

you have the start of a smoothie

to enjoy with a summer breeze.

If you blend a hydra 

you have the greatest show on Earth

as it reconstitutes, like orange juice,

into its plump self again.

It can’t be mere coincidence

that the Hydra guardian 

of underworld’s entrance

had many heads 

on its snake necks.

Legend told all to beware, 

cut one off, two grow back.

Well, a starfish grows a new limb,

a crab a new pincer,

but a hydra one-ups them all,

to rebuild and push out

any part found gone.

It’s absolutely astronomical, 

it’s impressive mathematics:

Whether severed in two, 

or cut into ten, 

each piece, no matter the size,

becomes an entire new hydra.  

For one so tiny

it is molecularly mighty.

About "In Awe of Hydras, Part II ": This is the second part of my exploring an extended metaphor within one topic, that of Hydras. Not the monster of Greece, but the tiny freshwater organism.  I was pleased with some of the metaphors in this poem, but definitely want to come back to it later for more fine tuning.

Poem #343, Proverbial Mysteries 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 9, 2022

The key to life

I’ve often heard

is to expect

unexpected.

Yet I’ve wondered

confused for sure,

if this rings true…

How could it be?

For when I try

to expect it,

it cannot be

unexpected!

About "Proverbial Mysteries":  Written for the prompt word "unexpected" in Move Me Poetry's weekly poetry battle. I had fun playing with the idiom "expect the unexpected" because it has been given to me many times as a key to life... I struggle to understand why expecting the unexpected doesn't erase the unexpectedness.  This poem uses a 4-syllable line structure, with three 4-line stanzas.

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 with seven new poems.