A Poem a Day, Week 50, Dec 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 50th week of the year, Dec 10 to 16, came from experiences of the week and prompts from Move Me Poetry on twitter.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!
Poem #344, A Birthday Poem for a Friend
by Emily Gibson, Dec 10, 2022
Born on the cusp
where Autumn ends
its preparation
and winter begins
its rest,
you embody
potential
and
patience,
an undercover prime and set,
an organization for
next season’s
growth,
next year’s opportunity.
You are the snowpack
that waits to swell the rivers
for fish and people
to thrive.
About "Birthday Poem for a Friend": I missed a friend's recent birthday but wanted to send this poem to the universe for her. She does so much for her people, and encourages me, and everyone, to be their better selves each day.
Poem #345, The Beginning Held Such Promise
by Emily Gibson, Dec 11, 2022
Brief rains fell sparsely
with soft “puffs” of dust
from the long drought
of awareness, of thought.
Earth wanted more.
Fresh clouds gathered,
sent full rain showers
down to parched fields
where meaning grew.
Earth was content.
Skies colluded to rain
in torrents, in drenches,
turned soil to trenches,
flooded reason’s seeds.
Earth grew violent.
Brutality surrounds us,
within and without. An age
of havoc, of chaos. No mercy
until our reign shows measure.
Earth waits.
Poem #346, A Dream’s Analogy, in Two Forms
by Emily Gibson, Dec 12, 2022
Version #1
Two
red cars
once a line
still want to feel
fast together, part
of a long fun line.
Lonely, they look
left behind
like lost
toys.
Version #2
Two
cars
left from
a line
wish to still
be a line
want to still feel
fast together
in a line
they look sad
lonely
two cars
left
behind.
Poem #347, Thought Tops Truth
by Emily Gibson, Dec 13, 2022
Two snow-blind crows posed
statuesque on a black-sand beach
smoothed flat by frozen flakes.
They squawked and shimmied
amid camouflage confusion.
About "Thought Tops Truth": A poem inspired by a scene of two crows standing ankle-deep in fresh smooth snow. I laughed at how they stood out, starkly against the white. The phrase, "color blind crows thought they were camouflaged" came to me, and the poem emerged.
Poem #348, First You Notice, Then You Change
by Emily Gibson, Dec 14, 2022
Cleavage occurs,
self-revealed by mind’s eye rewrites.
Cleavage occurs.
Old identity cracks and blurs,
radiates out from truth’s snakebites
until, as if under house lights,
Cleavage occurs.
About "First You Notice, Then You Change": I had this image of myself cleaving, like a glacier, revealing my truer hues, and this rondelet form seemed like a good way to explore that. It is a French poetry form, with a repeated 4-syllable line, and the other lines rhyme, with 8-syllables each.
Poem #349, Oh, To See the World Clearly
by Emily Gibson, Dec 15, 2022
We spent a day at the shore,
sand under foot, salt in the air.
I can’t forget, thanks to drops dried
to crystal crusts on my glasses.
This fine morning’s misted fog
coated plants and animals to damp.
I can’t forget, thanks to the cloud
debris between my eyes and lenses.
My love leans in sweetly for a kiss
as I step forward eagerly for a hug.
I can’t forget, thanks to his nose prints
that smear my vision like mayonnaise.
This afternoon I brushed my horse
who loves a good roll in sandy silt.
I can’t forget, thanks to powdery dust
that dims my prescriptioned sight.
Glasses are safety goggles in a pinch
when mad kids throw pencils in haste.
I can’t forget, thanks to the scratch
etched on my lens instead of my eye!
About "Oh, To See The World Clearly": From a prompt to write about something that happens all the time, with a tint of humor. I chose cleaning my glasses, which I avoid because it is hard to do without scratching.
Poem #350, Haunted by Our Selves
by Emily Gibson, Dec 16, 2022
We are all ghosts, haunted inside,
Just depends on what we hide.
Some bury bitter sharp shame
Others conceal, terrified of blame.
We cover emptiness in cosmic fabric
An elaborate illusion for the public
So serious, often our love it blocks
As if we were distant moon rocks.
These meticulous woven facades--
Illusions of shape like arthropods--
Protect us from difficult truths
We learned to avoid as youths:
We are all of us offspring of light
For mortals' eyes, far too bright
Thus, that which shields us our deceit
Keeps others from our molten heat.
This illusion of matter aggregates
to tissues and energy that originates
In every plant’s harvest of the sun.
It’s a shared dream we can’t outrun.
We are all ghosts who haunt
Our Earth home’s storefront
A search to see and be seen
Beyond this shared smokescreen.
About "Haunted by Ourselves": An Ekphrastic poem challenge from Move Me Poetry, with the two images from a real shop that sells little ghost figures. I used rhymed couplets in stanzas of 8 lines. This poem was selected as a highlight, as shared on Medium. (It is the first one so it's easy to find after the intro) https://t.co/C0X4TxaAW5
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