A Poem a Day, Week 21, May 21 to May 27 2022
Poem #141, The Familiar Welcomes Us Home
by Emily Gibson, May 21, 2022
After all the novelty
life on the road brings,
it is the normalcy,
of knowing where everything is
that tells us we are home.
The colors of the living room,
All the clocks clicking in their way,
the sound of the hot water kettle.
The feel of our own sheets,
the smell upon opening our front door.
Driving my manual car with
the simplicity of its dashboard!
How Ber’s hooves sound on the gravel
and the sleek satin of his summer coat grown in.
All our spices, in the right drawer,
and the condiments in the fridge door.
The scolding Steller jay at our porch
hauling peanuts to plant in our lawn.
With reluctance and relief
I sink into the couch
and make a list for tomorrow.
About "The Familiar Welcomes Us Home": As we drove from Santa Barbara to Vallejo on Saturday, I found myself shifting between thoughts of loss related to the end of something wonderful (our bicycle tour) and thoughts of anticipation for all the things I missed about home. I used this poem to think about the aspects of home, both small and large, that I looked forward to, as a way to assuage the mounting yet normal grief that comes with the end of anything significant in our lives.
Poem #142, The Weight of Next
by Emily Gibson, May 22, 2022
Pedaling 6 weeks is less exhausting
then driving 8 hours to reach home.
The weight of return grows heavier
as the balance of miles pivots behind.
The to-do list threatens erasure
of our on-the-road routine’s peace:
wake, eat, pack,
pedal, drink, pedal,
pedal, eat, pedal,
shop, pedal, camp,
eat, sleep, repeat.
Don’t lose the hard-won space,
the reflection and growth
the understanding of personal strength.
Your resilience is real.
A year fighting back MS
To be able to pedal again.
You did it.
And now you figure out what’s next.
No rush, all in good time,
like the cadence of your pedals.
About "The Weight of Next": I expected transitioning back from 6 weeks of camping and living on my bicycle to be challenging. It certainly was after our last tour across the country. But this transition has been more difficult in many ways. So much of the last year has been just fighting back against MS, figuring out how to be healthy and strong so I could ride my bike. I did it. Now what?
Poem #143, Our Mountains
by Emily Gibson, May 23, 2022
Arranged around this basin
Rise the grand glory of this land:
Our mountains.
From their asture perches
Of dramatic uplift or cold spewn lava,
They gaze at us, and our hurry
The rush of our busy lives
makes no sense.
I can feel them shrug and shake,
with their geologic perspective.
They remind me to consider
Why.
About "Our Mountains": Seeing the mountains and cinder cones of Central Oregon, I felt such a dramatic contrast from our time on the Pacific Coast. This land is different, and sometimes I long so deeply for what is familiar, with the green and growth and moisture of the coast, that I forget how this land speaks to me, too, just in a different voice. I loved that I missed this new homeland of mine.
Poem 144, No
by Emily Gibson, May 24, 2022
No.
No-no-no-no.
Just NO.
Not again, not one more bullet
searing one more child’s lungs.
Our society’s festering wounds
on full display
with each murderous rampage
fostered by easy access.
Like sap seeping from a tree
oozing over all in its path,
immobilizing and interring life,
gun violence colors our world
amber red.
Once happy memories
of school, shopping, subway
dissolve into
fear, anxiety, worry.
When is the next time?
Who is out there, hurting?
Where will the bodies get buried?
How do we hide?
You can’t. It’s everywhere.
Please no more.
Make it stop.
(photo credit Angus Veitch, from Flickr)
About "No": This poem was my attempt to put my anguish about the slaughter of children and educators in Uvaldi on paper. As a teacher who has gone through my share of active shooter drills, this is all I can say about it right now.
Poem 145, Where Are the Birds?
by Emily Gibson, May 25, 2022
https://photos.app.goo.gl/e7gKcZ3YmbdiCR6k7
Our morning wakeup call
for six weeks
in our tent
on the road,
heralded the day.
Each location, we awoke
to a new celebration.
I remember
New Brighton State Park.
Waves of birdsong
merged into our slumber,
each a new family
building like a freight train
until the baton passed to the next.
Nearly two hours
they drenched our ears
until the sun soaked us
with the new day.
This air is too quiet
here at home.
We live inside again.
I open the window
and hear one bird’s call
faint and faraway.
It’s somewhat sad,
and not the same,
but it’s what we have.
Poem #146, The Color of Life is Green
by Emily Gibson, May 26, 2022
Every nook, ledge, hill and expense
Carpeted in a swath of vegetation.
Green that pierces your tiniest bones
The ones in your ears and toes.
A wavelength so lush, I can smell it
Through the closed car windows.
Burnt tree carcasses in blacks and grays
Provide background, intensify the color.
Remind this jaded mind of life’s insistence
And the impermanence of destruction.
About "The Color of Life is Green": Earlier, I wrote a poem about the destruction along the Santiam River Canyon, from a drive. This time, I was shocked by the green everywhere. I'm not sure if the blackened trees made it brighter, or if it is always that bright there. Earth and life will find a way. Looking back on the poem, I think it relates a bit to the terrible event in Texas, too. The impermanence of destruction.
Poem #147, Quiet Competence
by Emily Gibson, May 27, 2022
Quiet competence--
The ability to do what
Needs to be done
Without fanfare
Or boast,
With humility
And gratitude--
Makes the world a better place
for a moment.
Anywhere it appears
Give thanks,
For it is humanity’s promise
This quiet competence.
About "Quiet Competence": I wrote this poem for Charley Snell and Russ White, who work with my horse, Ber. They both are expert practitioners in their fields, but they do so without a lot of fanfare. Just matter-of-fact competence.
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. Either way, thank you for listening and reading. Hope to see you next week!
