Poem a Day Week 52, Dec 24-30

  Poem a Day, Week 52, Dec 24 to 30, 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 52nd week of the year, Dec 24 to 30 came from a variety of eclectic sources.

We are in the last push of my personal poetry challenge! 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. After this week, only one poem left for 2022.  And then I will decide where this poetry journey will go in this next year that is upon us.

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 52 Poetry Podcast

Poem #358, Truth or Coincidences 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 24, 2022

 

Happy happenstances of

just-in-time interventions:

we thought the same thing

at the same time, I called 

right when you needed me,

if they hadn’t stopped for gas…

I don’t want to think about it!

Coincidences lull us to think

spiritual truth is bink

free will the rule

choices our fuel.

Consider an alternative…

coincidences as nudges

from ourselves 

on a different plane

or a universal design

somewhere in time.

Anonymous actions

of a concerned spirit.

About "Truth or Coincidences":  This poem started with a quote from an article I read, attributed to a nun in a Vietnamese war orphan charity: "Coincidence is God's way of staying anonymous." Though I don't believe in a single god or religion, I do believe there is something spiritual at work in the universe, and most of that something's work is anonymous.

Poem #359, All Worthy 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 25, 2022

We are apples with surface blemishes,

Support beams with unobtrusive knotholes,

Undecided clouds between Cumulus and Cirrus.

We are mugs of tea that curdled their milk,

Combs, each with some teeth worn smooth,

Chairs with slight wobbles on tile floors.

We are bicycles with tires in need of tunes,

Wayward threads fallen from needles,

Light-strands that work despite absent bulbs.

We are keyboards with letters worn invisible,

Spider webs with broken cross strands,

Woven rugs with slight imperfections.

We are cabinet doors with sticky hinges,

Dog-eared books with tea-stained covers,

Cedar pencils, erasers worn dull with use.

We are all imperfect yet still useful

with repair or rest or restoration.

We are all worthy of care.

About "All Worthy":  Inspired by an early morning musing on whether our value, especially to ourselves, is dependent on our perfection or lack of mistakes.  I decided it is not, and wrote this poem.

Poem #360, My Friend, Fear 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 26, 2022

Fear is a metamorphic rock,

unable to choose a life

of sedimentary or igneous.

Fear leaves home with a compact 

umbrella, a swimsuit, and a thermos 

of warm cocoa no matter the weather report.

Fear can’t be in the present

as the vortex of future what-ifs 

kicks too much dust up to breathe.

Fear has a filing cabinet filled

with every receipt from a lifetime 

of purchases, organized alphabetically.

Fear carries a ziplock bag that contains

an extra shoelace, hair tie, three 

safety pins, and adhesive velcro patches.

Fear can’t be in the present

for the hounds of the past

never stop slathering critique.

Fear is a child on a high dive’s edge,

ten toes curled over the board’s 

sandpapery lip, unable to leap.

Fear lives in the same house

in the same town of their birth

so they can always get back home.

About "My Friend, Fear": One of my favorite poems to write is a personification of an abstract noun. This one was inspired by a line from Spirit Car by Diane Wilson, "I guess I was afraid I wouldn't get back."  That made me think about how fear can drive harder than a Nascar driver and keeps us stuck on a track getting nowhere. 

Poem #361, Jazz of a Morning 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 27, 2022

A northern flicker drills

under the eaves outside

my bedroom, hard wood

siding with no insects

but still the bird dutifully

drums on the house

like hands that slap 

a bongo drum into staccato

rhythm, almost a song.

A second bird brain joins

to peck percussion harmony

and influence my newly 

drifted daydreams.

About "Jazz of a Morning": Inspired by a persistent sap sucker that insists there is something to be found in our rental house's eaves.  Due to the very hard wood, it makes no progress, but comes back repeatedly to try again, typically in the early morning.

Poem #362, Oh to Be More Like an Oak Tree 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 28, 2022

An oak gall swells throughout summer, 

sheltered nursery for wasp infants

swaddled inside tree cellulose.

Unlike my mind where worry bloats,

festers with doubt, sends flurry thoughts,

halts my progress, trips attainment 

of inner peace, an oak tree walls- 

off intruders and carries on 

unperturbed until each cocoon 

lets life into the world to fly 

free, no harm done. Our minds can learn 

a lot about personal growth 

from a grand old spacious oak tree.

About "Oh, to be More Like an Oak Tree": Inspired by seeing oak galls and considering how a wasp's egg and nibbling larvae are like a worry to a mind.... I used an 8-syllable line to give structure to this poem.

Poem #363, For My Dad, Persistent and True 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 29, 2022

In the dictionary’s definition 

of reliable and consistent,

I see a photo of my dad.

Always showed up where he said he’d be

like a river makes it to the sea.

A force of nature, like a wind

that influenced contours of my life.

Faced with unexpected detours,

he snapped back like a tree from snow,

shook it off, made new roots grow. 

There were so many obstacles

between our individual spheres

yet he showed up, and showed up

and showed up again,

to rise above the odds.

It wasn’t easy.

He kept on, straight and level.

In my ignorance I made assumptions

like a rock predicts a wave’s intentions.

In my assumptions I made decisions

that sadly suffer inability of revisions.

The best I can do

is to say I see you persistent, true

every step of the way.

I know this.

Thank you.

About "For My Dad, Persistent and True ": This is a poem that has been lurking in my mind waiting to be written for quite a while. I wanted to make sure I wrote it before the end of the year. It has been a long journey to be able to see my dad clearly, unobstructed.

Poem #364, The Stories Our Minds Tell 

by Emily Gibson, Dec 30, 2022

Between an action

and how we feel

lies what-it-means,

stories our minds tell.

Internal words used

to describe our selves

to ourselves

could be thought trash

shaped by experiences

and previous “what-it-means,”

inaccurate illusions

and delusions born of survival.

This thought life, 

it’s weighty like mercury

and just as poisonous

when left to run unchecked.

That friend you think ignored your call

is in their own world, it’s not you at all

so don’t stall when your mind’s

what-it-means tells you it is.

Time to take out the trash!

That garbage fouls

for days if we let it.

Instead, notice the whys

we attribute to others

pick up a different thought

trust until you can verify.

About "The Stories Our Minds Tell": I was listening to a podcast about anxiety and stress, and the idea of how what our minds interpret things to be becomes reality even if we have no facts to back it up. Noticing what we tell ourselves is the key. Some of it is garbage that we can jettison to be more free.

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.